


The Trigger

by tumbleweedchaser



Series: The Secrets of John Watson [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1970442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of assassinations in London begin a manhunt for a group of highly skilled and dangerous killers and the person who pays their checks.<br/>_______________</p><p>This is the final part of the Secrets of John Watson series. It is highly recommended you read the other parts first - though you might be able to read this one on its own without getting too confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lover

**Author's Note:**

> This is the it! The beginning of the end! The Trigger will be the last story in the series. This chapter is a bit smutty, but the vast majority of this story will be action based/plot driven. The next update should be on Monday, the 21st. :)
> 
> Enjoy!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end my friends!! This story will be primarily plot driven with a limited few smutty scenes when our characters have occasion. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive of my writing! I truly appreciate you all!

John rested in the weightless place between sleep and wakefulness. Tucked under the heavy duvet of Sherlock’s bed, the detective himself sitting in the bed reading a book. John smiled. Waking up had become his favorite part of the day, something he would not have imagined possible just over a year ago. Given, a year ago he was just truly accepting Sherlock’s death, and now he was snuggled into the bed they’d been sharing for nearly seven months.

It was bliss.

Sherlock closed the book and set it aside before turning so that his bare chest was against John’s back, his left arm burrowed under the covers to wrap around the doctor’s torso. He placed a soft, warm kiss on John’s neck, just below his ear.

“Finally awake,” he said, pulling John closer and bucking his hips against John.

John shivered at the feel of Sherlock’s erection behind him, his own morning wood twitching in response, “You seem pleased.”

“You were dreaming,” said the detective. He placed his left hand firmly across John’s sternum, holding him close as he began kissing his way down John’s neck and over his shoulder, “It must have been pleasant because you were making the most obscene noises.”

John inhaled sharply as Sherlock nosed his way back to John’s neck and nipped lightly at the nape of his neck. “I was dreaming,” he said, reaching back to run his hand down Sherlock’s bare thigh, “about giving a blowjob to a 6’1”, dark haired detective with dangerously attractive cheek bones.”

Sherlock smiled, planting another warm kiss at the base of John’s neck. He dragged his hand down John’s front and palmed John’s erection, “I think I could help that dream come true.”

The doctor laughed, rolling himself and Sherlock over so that he was on all fours, hovering over the detective. He leaned down to kiss the space where Sherlock’s collarbone met his neck and bucked his hips, allowing their erections to rub against each other. Sherlock bit back a moan, feeling grateful for the fact they’d both given up sleeping in clothes early in their physical relationship. He was already close, he’d worked himself up imagining a great number of things he could do to wake John up.

John began kissing his way down Sherlock’s chest, taking a moment to lick over one of his nipples. He giggled at Sherlock’s natural response to sharply inhale and thrust forward into John’s belly. “It would seem I slept in too long,” he said as he kissed the space just above Sherlock’s navel.

Sherlock whimpered as John finally reached his cock and licked one broad stripe up the underside of his length. His head tilted back into the pillow and he moaned loudly when John took his head into his mouth, putting his expert tongue to use licking up the frenulum and over the head. Without even the slightest hint of teeth, John took Sherlock in inch by inch. 

The doctor had impressed Sherlock even their first night together, but in the past seven months John had managed to learn to take Sherlock’s entire length in so that his nose pressed into Sherlock’s pubic hair. The detective took hold of John’s hair, massaging his dexterous fingers into John’s scalp and emitting a guttural moan when John swallowed around him and then began moving, up and down, up and down, up and down, swallowing and licking and moaning until Sherlock was panting, one hand clinched in the sheets, the other in John’s short hair, and moaning like some untamed beast as John swallowed while Sherlock came.

John hummed happily as he pulled away from Sherlock to kneel over him, hand pumping his own erection, pushing over the edge of his own orgasm at the sight of Sherlock lying debauched by his handiwork. He came into his hand with a shudder and dropped back onto the bed next to Sherlock, their feet tangled together.

Sherlock smiled, moving to kiss John’s forehead, “Thank you,” he said, flopping his head back onto the pillow. “You give the best blowjobs in the world.”

John laughed, “I doubt you have the data to support that.”

“Between personal experience and your nicknames from uni and the army I hardly need extra data.”

The doctor smiled and laughed again, he gave Sherlock a kiss, “I love you,” he said.

Sherlock hummed appreciatively. 

John rolled his eyes and shook his head, but was still smiling. “We’re going to have to wash the sheets," he said, wiping his hand on the sheets behind him, “again.”

Sherlock laughed, but John thought he looked proud.

 

#

 

John showered first and then placed the sheets in the wash and made breakfast while Sherlock washed and primped his hair. He didn’t have to cajole Sherlock into eating as often as he used to, unless they were on a case. It seemed that Sherlock’s exercised libido made his transport more demanding of food. John didn’t comment on Sherlock’s increased appetite, lest the detective notice and decide to starve himself just to be obstinate. 

Beatrice had returned to Texas shortly after she recovered from her injuries from the Pharmaceutical Drug Ring case. Nothing quite as interesting had turned up since, though Sherlock had help apprehend two jewel thieves, four kidnappers, and twelve murderers in the past five months alone. 

They’d chosen to be open about their relationship, if only for the fact that Lestrade had caught them in the act so early on and there was no way of keeping it from Mycroft. They weren’t openly affectionate in public as the two were both Englishmen, and John did not post about the change in relationship status on his blog, but amongst their friends and family they weren’t keeping the relationship a secret. It was quickly accepted. The members of the Yard had harassed them a bit, though Anderson was pleased to have won the pool. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy Holmes had both been delighted, and Molly was equally congratulating. Mycroft had simply had a fine bottle of Scotch delivered with a tag that gave his congratulations. Harry had threatened Sherlock, but then hugged the detective. Even John’s old friends from university, the army, and his old rugby team were supportive. It seemed many of them had assumed their relationship was old news.

John read the morning paper while Sherlock finished picking at his breakfast, though he’d already cleared three fourths of the plate. John glanced over the front pages, general elections were two months away and he was sick of hearing about it. No matter how the elections ended, Britain was about to have a new Prime Minister and John didn’t particularly like either of the major party leaders. Blake Richardson of the Conservatives was a prat and Michael Stronge of the Labour party was a liar and the poor bloke from the Liberal party didn’t stand a chance of getting the numbers in office needed to become Prime Minister. 

The doctor was grateful when he heard Sherlock’s phone buzz. He gladly threw the paper aside when Sherlock announced there had been a murder inside a bank that hadn’t been robbed.

John couldn’t help but groan when they got to the crime scene only to have to listen to various members of the Yard debate over which party leader would be a better Prime Minister. 

Sherlock inspected the body, noting the precise angles of the shot to the head. While the detective whirled about the crime scene and looked into the security tapes, John stood watching him work.

“What do you think, John?” he heard Sgt. Donovan ask from behind him.

He turned around to see Lestrade and Donovan talking with their arms crossed, “Sorry, what?”

“About Stronge,” said Sally, “I say he’s pretty outstanding-for a Liberal, Lestrade says he flip flops too much.”

“I think he’s a right arsehole who should die in a hole somewhere,” John blurted without thinking.

Lestrade blinked at him, “That’s a bit harsh.”

John sighed, “Sorry, I’ve had the displeasure of meeting him.”

“And _you_ don’t like him?” asked Sally.

“Not one bit,” said John.

“I've changed my mind,” said Sally, “If John doesn’t like him, he must but horrible.”

Lestrade laughed, “Is that how you’re passing judgment on people now?”

“I’m going to start introducing all my boyfriends to him,” she joked.

John laughed, “I didn’t think you regarded my tastes so highly.”

“Shut up!” said Sherlock, who was crouching by the body, “The lot of you!”

They all stifled a laugh and returned their focus back onto the crime scene. Sherlock stood and stepped toward them, “This was a professional job.”

“A hit-man?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored him, “John, come take a closer look.”

John stepped forward to appease him and examined the shot, “He was on his knees, probably had his hands on his head, and it does seem like more of an execution than the standard murder.” John stood, “But a military person might do the same, doesn’t make them a hit-man.”

“Normally I’d agree,” said Sherlock, “but,” he crouched down again and lifted one shoulder of the body, “there’s a calling card.”

John looked down into the space below the body, “An actual business card?”

Sherlock lifted the piece of evidence and held it between two gloved fingers. The card was a glossy black. On one side in neat gold lettering was the victim’s full name.

“Huh,” said John, eyeing the card warily.

“It’s an assignment,” said Sherlock, placing the card into a plastic bag that Sgt. Donovan had stepped forward to provide, “It means that the killer had no personal grudge against the man, but the person who paid wanted him gone for some reason. Thus, why there is no missing money or property from the bank itself.”

“We’ll pull files on him, see what we can find,” said Lestrade.

“Talk to his family,” said Sherlock, “It’s likely he owes some form of debt or that he had information on something or someone.”

“You don’t want to talk to them?” asked Lestrade.

“I doubt they know much,” said Sherlock flatly, “I’ll investigate elsewhere.”

Lestrade sighed, “Just stay out of trouble.”

Sherlock smiled, “Of course we will.”


	2. Blogger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't intended to write chapter 2 until my vacation was over, but there were delays and planes and I ended up writing this on my phone. I'll do some editing for grammar, spelling, typos, auto-correct issues when I return but if you notice something major please feel free to point it out.
> 
> The plot is picking up steam quickly, hopefully you all enjoy it!!
> 
> And an enormous thank you to everyone who has continued to support me while I write this series! Your bookmarks and kudos and comments especially have been the driving force in my writing this series! Thank you!!!

John followed Sherlock out of the bank and past the line of police vehicles. "So," asked John, "Where are we going?"

Sherlock pulled a phone from his pocket, "Our banker, Thomas Moore, was in contact with an anonymous caller. They'd exchanged texts and short phone calls, arranged meetings but the name of the contact was never programmed into the phone."

"Greg's gonna kill you when he finds out you stole evidence again."

"It's the best part of getting first access to the crime scene," said Sherlock, "I get the best evidence."

John chuckled, "And was our banker scheduled to meet his mysterious contact again?"

"Tonight, 7 o'clock at a pub across town."

"And in the meantime?"

"Research!" said Sherlock, raising his hand to hail a taxi

John watched as a taxi instantly pulled up to the pavement for them and then slid into the back next to Sherlock. The detective was already busy searching for information with the aid of his phone, so the doctor settled in for the ride back to Baker Street. When they arrived, Sherlock leapt from the taxi with his usual flutter of scarf and jacket, leaving John to pay the fare. By the time he'd made it to the flat, Sherlock had already lost his coat, scarf, and suit jacket and was hunched over his laptop, fingers feverishly clacking at the keys. John sighed with a smile, hung his coat up, padded into the kitchen, and started preparing tea.

A short time later, John set a cup of tea that was likely to go untouched next to Sherlock. His mobile began to ring before he could settle in with his own and he answered with a falsely cheery hello. 

Sherlock continued his search for information on the black business card, but his search thus far had been fruitless. He was beginning to think over the list of his remaining contacts from his time dismantling Moriarty's network when John's mobile rang. Ever since the Tontine case, Sherlock had become more aware of John's phone calls, which he supposed spoke of a mild overprotective compulsion towards his lover.

Sherlock gave John his full attention however when the forced smile on the doctor's face fell away and he responded to some unheard question with a firm, commanding "No".

"I'm not in the market anymore."

"I can give you an alternative number."

"No."

"No."

"Piss off," said John. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor, but John shook his head and looked at the floor. 

"Noted," said John, who looked up briefly to look Sherlock in the eye. He was making a decision, something important, but Sherlock wasn't sure what. "Still a no," said John firmly before ending the call. 

John sighed and looked up at the ceiling, "I miss the days when you could slam a phone down on the receiver."

"Is everything alright?"

John smiled at him, _his_ smile, "Honestly? No."

"What can I do?" asked Sherlock.

John's smile broadened and he stepped closer to kiss the top of Sherlock's head, "At the moment, nothing." 

Sherlock looked up at him, giving John a cynical glare. 

John moved toward the door of the flat and began to pull on his jacket, "I just need to go talk to someone, keep working on the case, I'll be back in a few hours."

"Is there a specific reason you're being vague?" asked Sherlock, beginning to sulk.

"Its to do with some work I did back in the army," said John, "I'm not sure what I'm allowed to say at this point."

"You are aware you are no longer _in_ the army?"

John laughed, "That's what I'm going to remind them. It'll be fine, really, give me a few hours to sort them out."

Sherlock nodded his head once to show his agreement, but didn't return to the Work until John had left the flat. 

#

 

John returned exactly two hours and forty-three minutes later, looking more irritated and anxious than when he'd left. Nevertheless, he insisted that everything was fine and urged Sherlock to continue focusing on the case at hand. 

By six o'clock, John was ready to leave the flat in order to go discover Moore's anonymous contact. Sherlock bundled himself in his coat and led the way to the pub where the late Thomas Moore was expected.

They arrived thirty minutes early. Sherlock chose a table near the back of the pub, which was filled with college students who were loudly cheering their favorite athletic team. John ordered them both a pint, though he ended up drinking both of them himself. Ten after seven, Sherlock perked up in his seat.

“Found him?” asked John, as he finished off the dredges of Sherlock’s beer.

“There,” said Sherlock, pointing to a man in his late twenties, “A writer.”

“A writer?”

Sherlock waved his hand in an annoyed gesture toward John, “Yes, a writer, a journalist specifically. _That_ is Dick Henderson.”

John put down his empty glass, “ _The_ Dick Henderson? The one who helped drag your name through the mud?” He started to stand, “I’m going to punch him in his face.”

Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder and set him back down, “He specializes in ruining reputations, meaning our dead banker knew something that would destroy the good name of someone with a high profile.”

“But?”

“But Dick Henderson is one of the few journalists still alive who actually cares about his own name and reputation enough that he isn’t going to tell us anything. We’ll have to find out what Thomas Moore knew another way.”

John sighed, “Just once I’d like to be able to ask someone something normally.”

“Stay here,” commanded Sherlock as he slipped off his bar stool, “I’ll see what can be deduced.”

“Try asking too.”

Sherlock shot him a quick glare, “Yes, fine, but stay here.”

John watched as Sherlock made his way to the spot Henderson had settled in while they were discussing him. Even John could see how tense the man became at Sherlock’s appearance, but given the nature of the articles Henderson had written, it wasn’t all that surprising. Sherlock flashed him a faux smile and chatted with the man for a moment. There were fake smiles from both sides, a few over-exaggerated but friendly hand gestures, and a polite handshake. Shortly after, the detective returned to the table. 

“Whatever Moore knew, it was big,” said Sherlock, “very big, rattle all of Britain big.”

“Royal family?”

“Politics,” said Sherlock, “the general election is coming up, or at least I presume it is based on your complaints.”

“A scandal?”

“High profile politician with a secret to hide? Wouldn’t be the first.”

“But which one?”

“ _That_ is precisely what we need to find out.”

 

#

 

They returned to the flat two hours later, partially because Sherlock didn’t want to make it obvious to Henderson that they were there to look for him and partially because John was apparently attempting to drown his problems in booze. It was with a light buzz that John stepped out of the taxi onto the pavement outside of 221 Baker Street. The detective exited the taxi on the side of the street and turned to find that John had sobered himself very quickly.

A woman, thirty-seven by Sherlock’s estimate, had seated herself on the steps to the door of 221. She stood, but didn’t speak, and stepped down onto the pavement.

“Sherlock,” said John, “Go ahead upstairs, I’ll be up in a minute.”

Sherlock hesitated, but John’s tone was quiet and commanding and mildly terrifying all at once. Quietly, he moved past John and the woman, _ex-military, single, no children, government employee_ , and into the flat. Then he raced up to the windows of 221B to observe what was happening below.

John was angry.

John was extraordinarily angry.

His arms were crossed, his eyebrows drawn down to create a deep furrow in his brow, his shoulders and stance were that of the Captain. He commanded the space around him, even the woman in front of him had responded in kind by placing herself into a military at-ease position, which in truth was anything but easy. 

Sherlock wished he could hear what they were saying or that it was day so he would have enough light to read their lips but all he could determine was that the longer she was there, the angrier John became.

The woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a black business card which she offered to John. He was quick to grab it, to conceal it, with a guilty glance in Sherlock’s direction. Whatever John said in response to her offering was enough to make the woman draw away and then to cautiously move around John to cross the pavement and then disappear down the street.

John bit his bottom lip and then, after a long time, sat down on the steps with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. 

He stayed there for hours.

Sherlock debated going down multiple times, but every time he reached the front door of the flat he convinced himself to turn around until John finally stepped into the flat. Without a word or glance at Sherlock, he hung up his coat, pulled off his shoes, and then made his way up to his room.


	3. Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to have this chapter finished a bit earlier, but I honestly had an extremely difficult time deciding just what exactly John was going to say. Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy it!!

Sherlock considered marching up to John’s room to demand an explanation and to examine the card given to him by the woman downstairs. Instead, he stood with one foot on the staircase and the other glued to the landing. Eventually he sat on the steps, wringing his hands and ignoring the sick feeling in his gut. A few hours later, as the first rays of morning sunlight began to creep through the windows, John opened the door to his bedroom. 

Sherlock kept his eyes on the floor but he could tell from John’s heavy tread on the step that the doctor hadn’t slept either. John made his way down the stairs and sat next to Sherlock.

“You’ve still got your coat on,” he said.

Sherlock looked down at himself, he did indeed still have his coat and shoes on. He’d been so focused on John he’d forgotten even that. Now that it had been brought to his attention, he realized he was too hot, stiff muscled, and that his head ached. He pushed aside the complaints of his transport and deepened his frown at the floor.

“Her name is Beth,” said John.

“Is she the one who shot the banker? Or does she just pass out the assignments?” Sherlock asked bitingly. 

John dug into his pocket and then reached over so that his hand was in Sherlock’s view, the card resting between two fingers, “Take it.”

Sherlock took the card and turned it to read the name. He exhaled with a bit of surprise as he read the name ‘John Watson’.

“It was a courtesy call.”

“A courtesy call?”

“Among professionals,” said John, “when you’re given the name of someone you’ve worked with before, it’s common to give them a courtesy call. A forty-eight hour chance to get away or deal with the person who’s writing the check.”

Sherlock finally looked up, anger evident on his face, “So we have forty-eight hours to find the person who wants you dead and you wasted the first six sitting around?”

John smiled at him and took advantage of the proximity to quickly lean forward for a quick kiss, “I was deciding what needs to be done next.”

“And?”

“We need to figure out how many shooters there are and what exactly has started this killing spree.”

“You think Beth isn’t the only one?”

“I know she isn’t,” said John, “for one, she kept saying ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, more importantly Beth isn’t generally a triggerman, she’s intelligence.”

“Professional courtesy,” said Sherlock, “Just how long have you been professionally killing people?”

John sighed and looked away, “Not for long and not recently.”

Sherlock considered this before responding, “A military assassin, your missing year.”

“Which is why I’m not telling you everything I know.”

Sherlock nodded, “Who would need to give me access to the information?”

John heaved his breath and looked up at the ceiling, “I shot him in the face nearly a year ago.”

“Watts.”

“Right. I’m not sure who was put in charge of the information later-or if Reggi managed to bury all of it or-“ He sighed, “I thought it would have gone to Mycroft, but it wasn’t in that file he gave you. At first I wasn’t sure if he just didn’t add it because of security but,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure anymore.”

“He doesn’t,” said Sherlock, “He said it himself when he gave me The File, 'there’s a year he still can’t find information on'.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“What’s your plan then?”

“I’ve a few options,” said John, “I could mope about until someone comes to shoot me but I think that’s rather defeatist, we could run off to Canada and hide but I don’t think their murders would be as interesting, I could do what they want and shoot your brother—“

Sherlock jumped, suddenly sitting straighter and staring with wide eyed wonder at John.

“Phone call,” said John in way of explanation, “apparently they think I could get close enough. But, we’re both fonder of him than we care to admit and so shooting him seems a bit not good.” He smiled and placed a hand on top of Sherlock’s head, ruffling his hair, “Don’t worry.”

“And the final option?”

John withdrew his hand and looked at the floor, sullen, “Solve the case.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “You seemed happier about Canada.”

John huffed, “This could all end up very public, in which case I—well, I’m probably going to end up in prison.”

“If you were under orders then—“

“People want someone to blame when scandals occur, the government needs a scapegoat and I’d be the easiest one to pin it on.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “I will not allow that to happen. We could pin it all on Watts, everyone already hates him.”

John chuckled, “I guess I’ll just leave you in charge of the media.”

“Does that mean I get to write the blog post?”

John smiled and kissed him again, “Never.”

The ping of Sherlock’s phone interrupted the detective’s advancement for another kiss. He pulled his phone from his pocket, “There’s another body.”

John stood, and extended a hand to Sherlock, “Let’s grab a cuppa from Speedy’s first, shall we?”

Sherlock took his hand and stood, “If need be,” he said, “we can make Canada Plan B.”

 

#

 

John emerged from Speedy’s with two cups of coffee and a pastry for each of them. Sherlock would deny it, but he was grateful for the meager meal. By the time they arrived at the crime scene, the complaints of his transport were easier to ignore and his mind easier to focus on the case. 

The crime scene was on the edge of a park, a children’s playground in the background of police detectives and forensic specialists roped off by yellow crime scene banners. The park itself sat between a row of tall office buildings and square blocks of apartments. 

Sherlock rushed off towards the body, not wanting to allow Anderson another second with it. John continued at his slower, more comfortable pace.

The detective recognized the victim before he’d even made it past the police tape. There lay Dick Henderson, two shots to the heart and one through the left eye. He’d seen this before, while chasing down Moriarty, but had never managed to put a name or face to the sniper outside of Spider. 

“Sherlock’s here,” he heard Sgt. Donovan inform Lestrade as he crossed the police tape. Beatrice may have been an annoying tenant at Baker Street and quite probably a murderess, but he couldn’t help but smirk at the memory of her crushing Sally’s hand. The word freak hadn’t been uttered since.

“Sniper,” said Lestrade, “We’re sweeping the buildings across the street.”

“Start on the eighth floor, he had to have been at least that high for this trajectory,” said Sherlock, “Would you agree, John?” the detective asked as the doctor had just arrived on scene. He was frowning down at the body, likely considering the fact they’d just seen him the night before so he couldn’t have been dead long.

Then, John laughed.

It was the haunting sort of defeated chuckling noise people make when they realize nothing they do is going to help their present situation. That end-of-the-line, I-am-so-screwed sort of laugh.

“John?” asked Lestrade, “Is everything alright?”

John bit his bottom lip, stifling his laugh, and shook his head, “Yeah, sorry, it’s just,” he grinned, “He’s got crabs.” 

Lestrade and Donovan both took a small, subconscious step away from the body. Sherlock tilted his head and awaited further explanation.

John wiped his hand over his face, “Sorry, it’s a military thing-well, technically it’s a Disney thing but that isn’t really—How tall is he?”

“5’10”,” said Sherlock, anxiously watching the captain.

The captain moved to stand where Henderson had likely been standing when he was shot and then turned to look at the buildings across the street. “Ninth floor,” said John, pointing toward a building in the middle of the street, “second window from the right of this building. Though I doubt you find much.”

“How do you know that?” asked Sally, obviously wondering if John and Sherlock’s brains had somehow been switched.

John turned back towards them and shrugged, “Seb always took a lot of pride in his work.”

“Seb?” asked Lestrade, “You know who did this?”

“You recognized the shot pattern,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said John, “He was a colonel in the army, fantastic shot, ruthless too, he--.”

“But what is his _name_?” asked Lestrade, clearly losing his patience.

“What? Oh,” said John, “Sebastian Moran.”

“Oh,” said Sally with a grin, “Crabs.”

John grinned at her, “Used to give him a hard time.”

Sherlock growled in annoyance, “Henderson had been meeting with Moore, our banker from yesterday. Obviously Moore knew something and was selling it to Henderson to publish.”

He stood properly and walked past John, “We need to figure out what they knew.”

Lestrade and Donovan simply watched as the duo disappeared down the street.

 

#

Sherlock flopped onto their sofa and sulked while John made tea. They’d scoured Henderson’s office and apartment, stolen his laptop, returned to search Moore’s office, home, and car and still hadn’t managed to find anything of use, _and_ John had forced him to eat both lunch and dinner so he felt fat and sluggish.

“I think there’s three of them,” said John, handing Sherlock a cup of tea, “plus their employer.”

“You think or you know?”

“Think,” said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped at his tea. John took this as permission to explain, “When there is a team of assassins made, they generally have three, at most four in the team. You need someone for intelligence, a sniper, a close proximity killer, and an organizer. You can make do with three if someone can play multiple roles.”

“And you think there are three because?”

“Because the year before I was assigned to work with Reggi at the hovel, I was working with Reggi as a close proximity killer alongside Beth and Seb. Seb pulled rank.”

“You think they found a new organizer who doubles as a close proximity killer?”

“They asked me to join, but I was never an organizer and Beth and Seb cover intelligence and sniper so they had to have found someone to organize each hit. That person was likely collecting information or evidence from Henderson’s home or office while Seb was shooting him.”

“But they asked you to join _after_ Thomas Moore was shot,” said Sherlock before downing the last of his tea in one big gulp.

“Right,” said John, “Which means either they’ve got a difficult target coming up, possibly your brother, or we’re missing a vital piece of information.”

“Or both,” said Sherlock as he opened Henderson’s stolen laptop to search for hidden files. John nodded in agreement, settling back into his chair to sip at his own tea and watch Sherlock work.

After a few moments, Sherlock found himself blinking a great deal. His arms and legs felt heavy and his vision blurred. He attempted to stand, but was hit with a wave of dizziness and began to stumble forward. John was there instantaneously, supporting his weight and guiding him back to the sofa. He sat next to him, letting Sherlock’s head fall onto his chest while he hugged the detective closely and ran a soothing hand through his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock,” whispered John, “but Seb complicates things even more, this whole thing just became hundred times more dangerous—“

“John—“ Sherlock attempted to say, but it mostly came out as a groan.

“Shhh,” said John, kissing his head again, “it’s just a sedative, it’ll pass in about two hours, I’ll have Mrs. Hudson come check on you. I’m so very, very sorry Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock attempted to grasp and cling to consciousness but failed. He fell asleep leaning into John’s warmth, enjoying the feel of his hand in his hair, and wishing he understood why John kept apologizing because it didn’t seem to be for drugging him.


	4. Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short. There was some information that ended up in chapter three that I'd originally intended not to show up until chapter 4 and 5. After rearranging some of the outline, this chapter came up a bit short. 
> 
> I'd love to know your predictions for how Sherlock will react the next time he sees John.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Mr. Holmes, wake up please.”

Sherlock struggled to identify the voice of the woman gently nudging him awake. It was familiar but it was difficult to pin down. He tentatively opened an eye and then shut it tightly against the light, groaning and curling his face into his pillow.

“Mr. Holmes,” said the woman, more urgently this time, “I require your assistance.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again, this time braced for the morning light beaming in through the window, and peeked out at the room. He was still on the sofa in the sitting room. There was a pillow below his head, a blanket tucked neatly around him, and a glass of water waiting for him on the coffee table next to a crisp, white envelope. He sat up and reached for the envelope, sparing a moment to identify the woman. It was Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea? John called her Anthea. _John._

Sherlock groaned again and laid back down on the sofa.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said again. He looked up at her. She was frazzled, not on her phone, worried. It was disturbing.

“I require your assistance.”

“You’ve said that already,” he said.

He could hear the shift in her body, the worried tension becoming anger as her jaw clenched and she shifted her stance. She yanked the pillow out from under his head and hit him with it, “I need you to contact your brother.”

Sherlock sat up, if only to glare at her, “ _You’re_ his assistant.”

She growled at him, “I can’t find him.”

“Have you checked the local bakery?”

She sighed, recomposed herself, and took a deep breath, “Mr. Holmes, I need your assistance locating a missing person. He was visited last night, at his home, by an extremely distressed Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes dismissed me for the evening and I have not been able to contact or locate either Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson since.”

Sherlock stood up entirely too fast, making his head spin but he steadied himself and ignored it, “Was there any sign of struggle? Blood, knocked over glasses, clean surfaces?”

“His home is always clean,” she said, as if insulted, “And the only thing out of the ordinary is that I can’t find him and…well, it’s stupid, but—“

“What?”

“He left his umbrella.”

“I need to see it,” he said, marching to the door to get his coat and shoes, “Now.”

He flew down the stairs to the black car waiting on the street below. Sherlock gripped the letter John had left, crinkling its neat edges before stuffing it into his pocket. 

Sherlock was on edge the entire ride to Mycroft’s less-than-modest home. If John had somehow managed to kill him it would have had to be done there at the house, but Mycroft would have noticed almost immediately, he was probably already aware of the hit put out on him. John had to have gone to warn him, perhaps ask for assistance. 

He examined his brother’s home with the same focused eye he’d give any crime scene. As best he could tell, they’d had a cup of tea, talked for some time, and then left. The only thing indicating Mycroft might not have gone willingly was that his umbrella was still in its stand by the door. Sherlock picked it up and smiled at the weight of it. He’d long ago deduced the umbrella was actually a weapon as Mycroft was never without it. Now, from the feel of the weight of it and the subtle switch in the handle, it was easy to tell it could do a great deal of damage. If he’d gone willingly and under friendly terms with John, he’d have taken it with him. So why was it still here?

_What the hell are you doing, John? Did John Watson somehow manage to harm or kidnap Mycroft Holmes?_

The detective sneered at the thought. He glanced at Mycroft’s Assistant. She was standing near the entrance-way between the kitchen and dining room. She was outwardly composed but obviously at a loss for what to do. 

“You said Dr. Watson was distressed?”

She nodded, “Yes, he was extremely upset about something, though I’m not sure what.”

“You didn’t hear the initial conversation?”

“I’m not a professional multi-linguist. While my Pashto is functional, it wasn’t enough to keep up with what they were saying.”

“How do you know he was upset? Was he shouting? Crying? Bleeding?”

“No, nothing like that,” she said, “he was just tense, nervous. Truthfully, I’ve never seen Dr. Watson be anything but calm and steady despite whatever the situation may be. Last night he was, well, for lack of better word: scared.”

Sherlock tensed his jaw, “I see.”

“He did mention you,” she said, “I’m not sure what the context was, but your name did come up.”

“And Mycroft? Was he behaving normally?”

“Mr. Holmes was his usual self. He dismissed me shortly after Dr. Watson arrived.”

“Security footage?”

“Mr. Holmes prefers not to be monitored by CCTV and the footage of his personal security cameras were shut off directly after my leaving.”

“Bastard,” Sherlock scoffed, “constantly bugs the flat but doesn’t monitor his own home.”

“In his defense,” she replied, jutting her chin out defensively, “he does it because he worries about you and monitoring his own home is nonsensical sense he does all the watching.”

“That’s how you end up with corrupt politicians,” said Sherlock while he searched the carpet for scuffs or heavy steps, “and my brother doesn’t worry about me, he worries about his career.”

Mycroft’s Assistant sighed, “You really don’t understand him at all.”

“I suppose as the person who runs his errands you would know him best.”

Sherlock smiled when she replied with silence, but frowned again at the realization that his petty argument here was not going to find John, Mycroft, or the assassins currently residing in London. 

“Can you get me access to Mycroft’s files? His computer?”

“His personal laptop is also missing,” she said, “But I can search our databases for you.”

“Start by finding all the information you can on Dick Henderson and Thomas Moore. I want to know who they were meeting, where they were going, what connections they had. And, while you’re at it, look for Sebastian Moran. I want military records for him.”

“I’ll get them to you as soon as possible,” she said, retrieving her mobile from her pocket. She was much more at ease with something to do. Not looking up from her mobile but walking toward the front entrance of the house, she asked, “Where to? I’ll have the driver drop you on the way to the office.”

“Scotland Yard.”

 

#

 

Sherlock arrived at the Yard in a foul mood. He stormed past the employees who seemed to be leaping out of his way as he located Lestrade. He found not only Lestrade, but Donovan and Anderson all reviewing the case files in a room they’d apparently dedicated to the assassinations. 

“I need any information you’ve found on Sebastian Moran,” said Sherlock as way of announcing his presence.

“Nice to see you too, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, looking up from the forensic reports in front of him, “Where’s John?”

“Not here,” said Sherlock, “and I need to see all the files on any shootings in the last week.”

“You two have a domestic?” asked Donovan. Though she meant it jokingly, the grin on her face soured at the deadly glare Sherlock gave her in response. “Right then,” she said, “I’ll just go look for those files.” She made a hasty escape from the room, followed by Anderson who by no means wanted to be target to Sherlock’s obvious enragement.

Lestrade wanted to follow them, but instead cleared his throat and gave a fake smile to Sherlock, “I’m sure he’ll come ‘round.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than an a lover’s quarrel.”

“It’s not about the case is it?” asked Lestrade, “He seemed to recognize-“

“Leave it,” said Sherlock, “I need to know what you’ve found. It’s urgent this case be solved quickly.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, “right, yeah.” The DI turned his reports and files around and quickly covered what they’d found. Ballistics had confirmed both bullet types, they’d managed to find an old military portrait picture of Moran but hadn’t had much luck aside from that. 

“There was one weird thing,” said Lestrade, “We think that Henderson may have either had a second apartment or a mysterious girlfriend.”

Sherlock looked up, “Why do you think that?”

“His keys,” Lestrade said, finding the evidence bag containing Henderson’s keys, “There’s a car key, office key, apartment key, etc, but then there’s another key here that’s numbered like they do at those old complexes.”

Sherlock looked over it, “Have you got a location yet?”

“No, though I’m a little surprised you don’t already—“

“I’ve been distracted and—“ Sherlock shook his head, “The case will be getting my full attention now.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Mycroft’s Assistant.

She had an address within ten minutes.


	5. Suspect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has really taken off! Thank you everyone, both new and old fans of the series, for your support! It really means a great deal to me to get your feed back and to know you're enjoying the story. 
> 
> I have to say that John has become a misbehaving character. Sometimes, when writing, your characters start doing things that weren't planned, and John is out of control - even for his writer. I keep having to re-work the outline!!

The apartment was a tiny, one-room utility with an adjoined bathroom. It was rented under an alternate name, one that would likely never have been connected to the journalist without the assistance of Mycroft’s Assistant’s database connections. In truth, the only reason she was able to give an address so quickly was because she’d been reviewing footage of him via CCTV and had seen him at the location. 

The entirety of the apartment was used as one massive work-space. Maps were pinned to the wall with pictures and articles attached. Files were strewn around the room, there was actual writing on one of the walls, as if Henderson hadn’t the time to find a notepad. There were three desks, but only one wheeled chair. Each surface was covered in files, reports, and pictures from research both old and new. Clearly he’d just been buying desks as he ran out of room. The kitchenette was equipped with a dormitory refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee maker. Sherlock could practically see a caffeine ridden Dick Henderson busily working away on one of the dozens of breaking news stories he’d covered. His journalist specialties had always been put to use by digging up dirt on the rich, famous, and powerful. A politician’s worst nightmare, and here was his den. It was no wonder he went through such great lengths to keep his name off of it.

One look at the space, and Sherlock suddenly craved a second apartment. Honestly, he was jealous of the nook of uninterrupted research before him. Sherlock considered that John didn’t really need his bedroom anymore as he’d essentially moved into Sherlock’s room already. _Assuming he intends to come back._ Sherlock frowned and shook away the pessimistic voice that kept insisting on blathering unhelpful, sentimental, and doubtful thoughts.

Lestrade began perusing through the papers scattered about the room, “It’s like a minefield of incriminating evidence.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, pushing aside a file for some article long since written, “but we need to look for recent information. Information on Thomas Moore, or Moran, or—oh.”

“Oh?” Lestrade was beside him instantly. 

“These folders are new, freshly labeled compared to everything else, but the information inside is old.” He held out a news clipping and handed it to Lestrade, “Everything here is about the murder of Gwen Chevalier.”

“I remember this, nearly a decade ago now. She was a journalist, did a lot of coverage overseas, war mostly. The case was picked up by some government agency, and then promptly never solved.”

“Why would Henderson suddenly be interested in the murder of a war correspondent from ten years ago?”

“Dunno,” said Lestrade, “Almost as mysterious as why the bloke doesn’t own a computer.”

“Of course he does, John and I picked it up at his—“

“What?” Lestrade asked, glaring at the detective, “actually, don’t tell me.”

“But it didn’t have anything of use on it, zero research. His work computer was nearly as empty, which means he was using a different computer to work, he probably never let it out of his sight.”

“But there wasn’t one on the body.”

“No, but he had one at the pub the night before, or at least a bag that was obviously designed to hold one.”

“The pub?”

“Moore was supposed to meet him at the pub but since he was dead, he didn’t arrive. Do keep up.”

Lestrade’s glare deepened.

“Moore had some kind of contact,” said Sherlock, “He was feeding Henderson information to do with this unsolved murder.” Sherlock snatched the old news article from Lestrade’s hand and tucked it back into the file, “Whomever killed this woman, or paid to have her killed, is the same person responsible for this recent string of murders. It’s cleanup.”

“So, someone involved in Gwen Chevalier’s murder told Thomas Moore who then took it to Henderson, for what? Money?”

“I suspect Moore was being paid to be a middle man, his source was probably paying him to convey information to Henderson. The source’s motives for sudden public confession are unclear.”

“Then we’re not only looking for at least two shooters, but the person paying them, and now for a witness to a murder from nine years ago?”

“Three assassins, one benefactor, one witness to a nearly decade old crime,” said Sherlock. _One older brother. One blogger._

Sherlock’s phone pinged just as Lestrade’s phone rang. The detective read the text from Mycroft’s Assistant: “Locked out of system-will deliver what I have to Baker St.”

_Mycroft is definitely alive then._

Sherlock sent texts to the four numbers at which he could think to contact Mycroft, including their mother’s, and made one short phone call to a land-line Mycroft used to keep. There was no answer, except from his mother who informed him that she hadn’t heard from either of them in at least a week and that neither of them visit enough.

“Double homicide,” said Lestrade as he hung up the phone, “Two different shooters, and another one of those cards showed up.”

 

#

 

Sgt. Donovan and Anderson greeted them as they arrived at the crime scene twenty minutes later. They both gave a tilted look at Sherlock as he exited Lestrade’s car.

“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Anderson.

“What do you think?” said Sherlock, “I’m here to do your job.”

“No,” said Sally, shaking her head, “that’s not—it’s just that, John just left.”

Sherlock was stooping over her instantly, “John was here? When? How long ago did he arrive? Which direction did he go?”

Sally stepped back, trying to take in all of the questions at once, “He got here just a few minutes after I talked to Lestrade. He said you were too busy and that you’d sent him to take pictures. He left, maybe five, ten minutes ago.”

“Which way?”

“I’m, not sure, I was still inside when—“

“Find. Out.” Sherlock demanded.

“Last I checked you weren’t my-“ she began to yell back.

“Knock it off,” commanded Lestrade, “ask the others if anyone saw which way he went while we go look at the bodies.”

Sally turned away with a growl to ask the other officers if anyone had noticed which way John had gone while Lestrade ushered Sherlock to follow Anderson into the little house that now contained two corpses.

“First vic is the homeowner,” said Anderson, “Name of Brian O’Neill. At first we thought he’d shot the intruder, but his gun wasn’t fired and the trajectory was all wrong.”

Sherlock looked over the scene quickly. Brian O’Neill had put up a bit of a struggle but inevitably had lost when he was shot through the heart at close range, sending him and his blood all over the living room wall, unused pistol in hand. The second body, yet to be identified, had obviously turned away from the body when a third party entered the room. The shot that killed him was a neat, clean shot between the eyes. He’d only had enough time to turn around a see who his shooter was. His pistol, missing only a singular bullet, was still in his hands. Sherlock suspected that ballistics would show the second vic’s gun to be the same one used to kill Thomas Moore at the bank.

“Where is the card?” asked Sherlock as he turned away from the bodies to examine the minimal contents of O’Neill’s home.

“Coat pocket of the second vic,” said Anderson, “It was the only thing he had on him. We’ll get a name once we run prints.”

“The _card_ , Anderson,” said Sherlock.

“Has the first victim’s name on it.”

“I’ve got a lead on John,” interrupted Donovan, stepping only slightly into the room, “Two of the officers said he left on foot, but got into the driver’s side of a red sports car about a block away.”

“Does John even have a license?” asked Lestrade.

“Who knows,” said Sherlock.

“Why don’t you all clear out,” said Lestrade, “let Mr. Holmes here have the scene to himself for five minutes.” The room cleared quickly, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade in the quiet company of two corpses. 

“Look,” said Lestrade, “I know you like to think we’re all idiots, but I didn’t get to be Detective Inspector by being a moron.”

“Get to the point.”

“How long ago did he go missing?”

“Last night.”

“And?”

“He may or may not have drugged me.”

“Christ.”

“Something is off about this case.”

“Other than the fact I’ve just labeled John Watson as a suspect for the murder of our murderer here?”

Sherlock turned to glare at him, but it lacked its normal ferocity. “He’s involved,” said Sherlock, “but I’m not sure how. Honestly the man’s the most impressive liar I’ve ever met, they should name a mental illness after him. I’ve read through three different psychology books looking for the right diagnosis for him and he never quite meets all the markers.”

Lestrade looked down, a look of confusion working over his face, “You think John’s gone off the rocker?”

“Maybe I’m catching.”

Lestrade sighed, “Shut it.”

“I know this much,” said Sherlock, “He certainly isn’t working with the shooters.”

The DI thought over everything he’d gathered on the case, excluding John’s possible involvement, “Alright, so now we’ve got a third party involved, one who wants to stop the shootings, but doesn’t necessarily want them talking either.”

“Right.”

“And it is possible that John is involved with this third party?”

“It would seem so.”

“You could be wrong,” said Lestrade encouragingly. 

“Have you ever known me to be wrong?”

Lestrade tensed his jaw, “Not about a case.”

“Then add John Watson to your wanted suspects list,” said Sherlock. His voice was cold, bitter, defeated. Greg hated it, for a moment hated John, but then he tried to imagine jumper-clad John shooting anyone without a damn good reason. Yes, he was a soldier and Greg wasn’t dumb enough to think for even a second that John hadn’t shot that cabbie or half a dozen others to protect Sherlock, but the man was also a doctor. He was a protector, the type that would do anything to keep those in his care safe.

“No,” said Lestrade, “There’s more to this than we know. I’m not putting out a search for him until we know for sure.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

For the first time since he’d met him, Lestrade thought Sherlock might actually be sincere.


	6. Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's confession: This chapter did not go as planned. Sherlock ran away with the plot and John helped. I believe however, you will enjoy the turn it took.

Sherlock returned with Lestrade to the Yard in order to search through the files Donovan had pulled before they’d gone in search of Henderson’s writing den. When that proved fruitless, he took to monitoring CCTV footage, but found that all of the cameras around O’Neill’s home had somehow managed to fail to record anyone entering or exiting the house until the police arrived.

 _Damn you Mycroft, what did you get John involved in?_ Sherlock frowned, _It might be more accurate to ask what John got Mycroft involved in._

He redirected his attention to Gwen Chevalier. There was very little still in the records at Scotland Yard, as most of it had been confiscated by higher authority. Ballistic reports and a few pictures of the scene were all that was left. Twenty-six years old, a promising journalist, and the center of much controversy. The murder had made national news because her employer had released an editorial claiming that the government was covering up her death. She died the day she returned to the UK from Afghanistan. She’d apparently told her boss she’d found something big, something that would get the attention of people the globe over. She was killed, and all her research stolen, before she had the chance to tell anyone what it was she had discovered.

Her supervisor was absolutely correct. Everything about it screamed cover up and government involvement. But their present situation indicated that there had been a loose end that went untied: Brian O’Neill. Her photographer.

He’d retired immediately after her death at the age of forty, but was living extraordinarily comfortably for someone who hadn’t had a paycheck in ten years. Why kill her but let the photographer live? Some people will take a secret to the grave for the right amount of money.

So why now? Why tell now? Had the money run dry? Guilty conscious? Was he already dying? There simply wasn’t enough information until the forensic reports came in. He sent a quick text to Molly asking her to call as soon as she’d examined O’Neill’s body. Then, he attempted to contact both John and Mycroft but was again ignored.

It was obvious they made up the entirety of the third party, but it was overwhelmingly perplexing that Mycroft wouldn’t defer to MI5 to take care of the matter.

Lestrade cleared his throat behind Sherlock. The detective hadn’t even heard him enter the room.

“You need food,” said Lestrade, “and rest.”

“I don’t sleep while I’m on a case,” said Sherlock.

“I think this particularly case has been more taxing on you than they normally are.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s late. Forensics won’t get the reports to me until morning, you’ve got other files to sort through at home. Go get something to eat and come back tomorrow.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, “Are you kicking me out?”

“I’ll escort you if I have to,” said Lestrade, “We mere mortals need sleep. Unless new information comes forward, we’re getting some rest. I think you need to do the same.”

The detective opened his mouth to argue, but Lestrade was right about one thing: there were more files waiting for him at the flat. 

“Fine,” he agreed, standing and collecting his coat. As he followed Lestrade out of the building, he texted Mycroft’s Assistant a quick directive: Need information on Gwen Chevalier, can you find anything? –SH

The response was quick, “Been cut off, but I have other sources. Will look into it.”

Lestrade kindly gave him a ride back to Baker Street, but the ride was a tense and silent one. Both of their minds were flitting around the idea that they might be chasing after John and neither of them wanted to discuss it.

“I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” Lestrade said as he pulled up to the curb, “We’ll get this all sorted.”

Sherlock didn’t bother with a reply as he exited the car. He stomped up the stairs to the flat, but stopped before entering the door. The lights weren’t on, but the rich scent of fresh curry emanated from the flat and he could hear the soft tinker of plates being set on the table.

Cautiously he opened the door and stepped into the flat. There was the sound of the kettle running, and the familiar padding of bare feet. He glanced down, John’s shoes were resting in their normal location, his coat hanging in its spot. 

The man himself stepped halfway out of the kitchen, he was barefoot and wearing jeans and that same style of plain black t-shirt he’d worn the night they’d invaded Watts’s manor. He was evidently exhausted, both mentally and physically. He smiled at Sherlock as if nothing about this was unordinary, “Perfect timing, food just got here.”

Sherlock felt an odd combination of shock, confusion, anger, and relief. He could only imagined how this all translated on his face, but it prompted John to sort of sigh and laugh at the same time, “You didn’t read the letter, did you?”

“I-“ Sherlock reached into his pocket where the unopened, misshapen letter was still tucked away. He looked back at John but the man just smiled again, _his_ smile, and returned to the kitchen. The detective pulled the letter from his pocket and tore it open. 

 

_Sherlock,_

_Mycroft felt it would be incredibly stupid and counter-productive for me to tell you anything about what is going on, but, having been on the receiving end of a similar situation, I firmly told him to piss off and decided to leave this anyway._

_I am truly and terribly sorry to have sedated you. It was Mycroft’s idea, and I rather felt I had to concede as it is physically impossible for me to outrun or evade you when you are determined. Drink the water, it’ll help with the headache and sick feeling you likely have._

_The situation I find myself in is a particularly tricky one. Like the Hovel, this relates back to something I was involved in during my service but unlike the Hovel there is no military record of it ever happening. If I’m caught, I’ll be used as a scapegoat and there will be no defense. Mycroft has offered me some semblance of hope for dealing with this situation, but if it all goes wrong I’ll pay the consequences independently._

_For this reason, and for your protection, I have to be the bad guy and I need you to treat me as you would any other criminal. Please, be relentless in your search. The harder you hunt, the safer you will be. Until you aren’t, because eventually you’ll stumble on the truth and become a target. Apparently your arse of a brother has no problem using you as bait for the sake of national security. I am less comfortable with the idea._

_I’ll be by the flat to check on you in twenty-four hours, because you probably won’t eat or rest otherwise and because I need to know you’re a willing participant. If not, I’ll just lock you away with your brother until it’s all over, for better or worse._

_Most importantly, please do not doubt that I love you. I cannot imagine the dark place I would be in without your stunning presence in my life. I have considered every second with you to be a blessing. You make life worth living and you give me a reason to fight back when my past returns to haunt me. Thank you for giving me that._

_Always yours,_  
 _John_

 

Sherlock damned himself for not opening the letter sooner. He removed his coat and hung it next to John’s by the door. He made his way to the kitchen, where John was setting cups of tea next to the plates of curry. 

“I presume you will have to leave again.”

John looked up at him, “Yes, but I predict this will all be over within seventy-two hours. Possibly less, depending on how tomorrow goes.”

“How much danger am I in?”

“At present?” said John, seating himself and gesturing for Sherlock to join him, “You’ve only just caught their attention. They’re more focused on dealing with me and Mycroft is assisting in distracting them tonight.”

“And when I stumble onto Miss Chevalier’s discovery?”

“Then you’ll be in a lot of danger.”

“A monitored target,” said Sherlock, “How very Mycroft.”

John chuckled, “Words cannot express how much I hate working with him.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from smiling at that, “Oh?”

“He’s so dull, and cold,” said John, “and callous.”

“I’m having a hard time imagining Mycroft Holmes hiding from someone,” said Sherlock, “or hiding with John Watson,”

John laughed, “It’s rather in plain sight.”

Sherlock hummed in response and picked up his fork to pick at his food, “I briefly considered that you may have managed to kidnap him. I don’t know how you managed to convince him to part with his umbrella, he never leaves home without it.”

The doctor looked up and smirked at him, “That still holds true.”

_Oh. He never left home. That bastard has a control room in his house._

“Still,” was all Sherlock said.

“So you connected Gwen to the current deaths?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “but I’m still uncertain about what she knew, and O’Neill’s reasons for speaking out now.”

“I’ll say this much,” said John, swallowing a mouthful of food, “Reggi was in charge of the security for both this business with Gwen and the Hovel. There were records for the Hovel, but there’s nothing for what Gwen stumbled onto. Not even military record of the servicemen who were standing guard at the door being transferred to the location.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment, the atrocities of the Hovel would have been enough to bring a great deal of international tension to Britain. “War,” he said, “Keeping her silent was war prevention.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock took another bite of his food and thought over everything John had said, “What are you planning for tomorrow? You seem uncertain things will go as planned.”

“Something incredibly stupid,” said John, “Honestly, it’s the dumbest thing I’ll ever do.” John stuffed another bite of food into his mouth and glanced across the table at Sherlock, who was clearly unhappy with his answer. “Just being honest,” said John, “You should probably start carrying a gun though.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John continued undeterred, “I bought one for you, well, technically Mycroft bought it, but I picked it out.”

Sherlock stole a quick glance around the room and spotted a box in his armchair, “How sweet?”

John laughed.

“You’re exhausted,” said Sherlock, “How long can you stay?”

“Remind me to tell Mycroft he owes me a hundred quid.”

“Why?”

“Because you just asked how long I can stay, which suggests you aren’t going to put up a fight about my leaving again. He thought I should drug you again, or taze you.”

“I’m not sure if that is a compliment or an insult.”

“Compliment.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

John wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it next to his plate, “I’ve got a few hours at most.”

“Is there any way to convince you not to do whatever incredibly stupid thing you intend to do?”

“No, not really.”

Sherlock downed the tea next to his plate of half-eaten food and then stood. He walked around the table to leer over John, “Well then, I find your lack of jumper disturbing and require that you either put one on or remove everything entirely.” He extended a hand to the doctor.

John took his hand and stood up as well. Sherlock had placed himself so closely that when John stood they were less than an inch apart from each other. “Seems silly,” said John, “to put on _more_ clothes.”

“For the record,” said Sherlock, leaning in closer, “I am still incredibly angry with you.”

“Noted.”

Sherlock closed the gap and kissed John. It was a slow, sweet kiss that tasted of curry and unspoken promises. Both men’s hands found their way to the other’s torso, Sherlock’s landing on John’s hips as John ran warm, strong hands along Sherlock’s ribs. They pulled each other closer, deepening their kiss and allowing themselves to indulge in the warmth of the other.

The detective pushed his thumb under John’s black t-shirt, rubbing against the soft skin just above his course jeans. John pulled Sherlock closer, running firm hands down the detective’s back to grasp at Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock hummed happily in response, pushing both hands under John’s shirt and tugging it up until his thumbs found John’s nipples. He circled over them, causing John to tilt his head back with a moan. Sherlock moved in, kissing the space over his adam’s apple and then nipping gently at the crook of John’s neck. The doctor moaned again and lightly thrust his hips forward into Sherlock. John began un-tucking Sherlock’s shirt, but the detective pulled his hands away from where they teased John and took hold of the doctor’s wrists, stopping him. 

John quickly opened his eyes, obviously worried Sherlock had changed his mind, but the detective smiled, “I’m revoking your touching privileges.”

John raised an eyebrow, “What?”

Sherlock reached for John’s belt, unbuckling it with ease and pulling it from the belt loops, “I told you, I’m angry with you.”

“So I’m not allowed to touch you?”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock, stepping out of John’s reach and taking John’s wrists into one hand. He wound the belt around John’s wrists, not tightly enough to hurt him, but enough to keep him bound. Grabbing hold of the belt, Sherlock tugged him forward and led him back to his bed, where Sherlock firmly believed John should always sleep. Anything else was unacceptable. 

He led John to the head of the bed and guided him to sit by placing his hand against John’s sternum and shoving him. Sherlock examined his doctor, he was still obnoxiously clothed but obviously aroused and willing to let Sherlock do anything he wanted to him. The detective was fairly certain he could beat him with a stick and John wouldn’t complain once, not that Sherlock particularly wanted to hit John with a stick, but still. 

Sherlock brought his hands to his own belt buckled and watched as John’s eyes followed his hands and the way John swallowed wantonly as Sherlock slowly slid his belt free. 

“Hands,” Sherlock demanded and watched with admitted pleasure as John obeyed. He laced his own belt through the knot around John’s wrists and then, bracing himself with a knee on the bed, leaned in over John, tugging his hands above his head until the doctor was on his back. Sherlock looped the second belt around one of the posts of his headboard and buckled it at the tightest notch, which still left a great deal of wiggle room for John.

He returned himself to an upright position, one knee still on the bed next to John. “Damn,” he said, “one moment.” Sherlock turned away from the bed and left the room. He heard John exhale a stuttering breath and then shift to the center of the bed.

When he returned, it was with a pair of scissors from John’s medical kit, “Forgot to remove your disturbing t-shirt first.”

John rolled his eyes, “Right, forgot.”

“Calculated error?” Sherlock said as he slid off his shoes, ignoring the fact he’d likely scuffed the back of them and stretched them by removing them incorrectly. He crawled up the bed, seating himself over John’s thighs. He took up the bottom edge of John’s shirt and put the scissors to work, cutting just enough that he could take the shirt into his hands and tear it open with a satisfying rip of the fabric. He cut away at the short sleeves until he could pull the entirety of the shirt off and away. He threw it and the scissors across the room. 

“Much better,” Sherlock purred as he leaned down over John to plant a number of small kisses along his collar bone. 

“I didn’t think you liked my jumpers so much,” joked John, tilting his head to give Sherlock better access to his neck.

The detective gently nipped over John’s pulse point, “Keep making snarky remarks and I’ll gag you too.” Sherlock licked his way up to John’s earlobe and took it into his mouth, lightly sucking on John’s ear. He felt John’s erection growing below him, hindered by his jeans. “I think you might like that idea,” he said, enjoying the shudder his voice sent through John’s body.

He kissed his way down to John’s nipple, ghosting over it with his lips until John inhaled deeply. Sherlock licked over it, his own erection growing in response to the moan John emitted. He kissed his way to the spot just above John’s heart and kissed it, “You ended your letter with ‘Always yours’,” said Sherlock, kissing he spot again.

John lifted his head to look down at him, “It’s true. Has been, since the day I met you. I didn’t realize just how much at first, but, I’m yours Sherlock.”

Sherlock placed his lips in a soft ring over John’s heart and sucked on the spot, letting his hands slowly move up over John’s ribs and upper arms. By the time he reached John’s elbows, he stopped his suction on the skin over John’s heart and allowed himself to move upward so that his hands were over John’s wrists, just below the belt, and he kissed John properly. By the time they’d both come, the mark would be showing. 

The detective pulled away from the kiss and sat up when he felt John bucking into him. “Impatience,” said Sherlock, “is not going to make me go any faster.”

John did his best to still himself, but it was basically impossible with Sherlock tying him up and marking him and teasing him and being his ridiculously sexy self even with his damn clothes on. He bit his bottom lip and threw his head back into the pillow with a frustrated groan. Sherlock shifted above him, John heard the sound of a zipper and when he picked his head up to look again he couldn’t help but whimper at the sight. 

Sherlock was still fully clothed, but had pulled himself from his trousers and was slowly stroking over his cock, thumb working over the head with each glide to the tip before pulling back to the base. John couldn’t contain himself and had bucked up into him before he could stop himself, a whimper escaping his lips as his too cramped erection pushed up against Sherlock. He licked over his bottom lip before biting it as he watched Sherlock touch himself, seemingly prompted only by John’s reactions.

The sight of John was enough to push Sherlock over the edge and it took a great deal of restraint not let his hand pick up pace and just come over John’s stomach. There was his doctor, the first red signs of Sherlock’s mark on chest, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide, erection below him, hands bound, and so willing and wanting for anything Sherlock was willing to give him. 

“If you want something,” said Sherlock, “you’ll have to ask for it, otherwise I’ll just sit here watching you squirm all night.”

John gave a frustrated growl, biting down harder on his lip as his head tilted back ever so slightly, his hands gripped tightly onto Sherlock’s belt. “Please,” he begged, “Let me taste you, _please_ , Sherlock.”

And how could he resist that?

Sherlock moved up so that he was straddling John’s chest and guided his erection into John’s eager mouth. John moaned as he wrapped his lips around Sherlock. The detective placed one hand on the headboard and one on John’s head, helping to support and steady him as he worked Sherlock’s erection. Carefully, Sherlock allowed himself to thrust forward into John’s mouth. The response was a guttural moan from John as he swallowed around him. Sherlock continued, thrusting into John’s mouth as he was only too happy to service and please him. Soon, Sherlock was panting as well. He looked down to watch John and found the doctor was looking up at him, watching _him_ react and clearly pleased by what he saw. A loud moan escaped Sherlock when John made eye contact with him as he took in the entirety of Sherlock's length and swallowed around him. His breath shuddering, Sherlock pulled away before he came too early, and by God John whimpered as his lips chased after Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock moved down the bed so that he could better reach John’s lips with his own, but he didn’t linger long, instead trailing kisses down John’s chest until he reached his jeans. Mercifully, he opened the fly of John’s jeans and pulled both the jeans and John’s pants off of his erection. John exhaled with relief at being freed from the confines of his clothing but then threw his head back with an animalistic growl as he pulled on his constraints when Sherlock quickly licked up his length, enjoying the taste of the pre-come beading at the head of John’s cock.

He made a point to wait until John was looking again before licking his lips and taking John’s length into his mouth. John’s body tensed with pleasure and the noises he made were downright criminal. Sherlock returned his moans when John began saying his name and praising Sherlock’s genius use of his tongue.

Sherlock pulled away before John could come. He slid off the end of the bed, taking John’s jeans and pants with him and tossed them to the floor at the end of the bed as he stood and looked over John’s body. The man was breathing deeply, every inch of his body desperate for Sherlock’s touch and he looked at Sherlock with need. The detective licked his lips at the sight of John’s hard cock leaking pre-come, his balls tight. It would not take much for either of them at this point.

Sherlock quickly made his way to the bedside table for lube. When he returned to the bed it was to find John with his legs shamelessly open and ready for Sherlock. The detective wasted no time, quickly lubing his fingers and entering John with two fingers at the start. He moved the pads of his fingers over John’s prostate, firing a slew of swear words from John. Sherlock watched as John squirmed under his touch, as he panted and held tightly to Sherlock’s belt, tugging at it with frustration. 

John looked down at him, their eyes locked, “Please, Sherlock. Please have me.”

Sherlock obliged.

He rubbed a generous amount of lube over his cock, ignoring the fact it would stain his shirt and trousers, and pushed into John, the simultaneous moans creating a symphony of lust and love. The mark above John’s heart had blossomed, the purple of the fresh bruise rising to the surface of the skin. Sherlock gripped John by the hip with one hand, wrapped his other hand around John’s erection, and locked his eyes on John’s. 

He thrust deeply, pumping John, and watched as his lover unraveled but never looked away from Sherlock’s eyes. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, tightening himself around Sherlock and pulling him deeper as they both went over the edge and came while moaning each other’s names. 

Sherlock waited until they’d both calmed themselves from their blinding pleasure and were simply panting with ecstasy before pulling himself from John. He clambered up the bed to lay beside John, reaching up to unbuckle the belts and free his bedmate, though a part of him was deeply tempted to keep him that way so he couldn’t leave.

John brought his hands down, turned to his side and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s torso, pulling him close and kissing him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” asked Sherlock.

“Everything.”

“Anything for my John,” said Sherlock, kissing him on the forehead. Suddenly Sherlock understood why John was always kissing him on the top of his head, and why it always made Sherlock happy. He smiled and snuggled into John. “Can you stay? Just a little longer?”

“Yeah,” said John, with that damnable smile of his, reaching to brush a curl from Sherlock’s face, “get some sleep, I’ll wake you before I leave.” 

Sherlock held him tightly, allowing himself to fall asleep curled in John’s arms. He vaguely recalled John kissing him on the head, a soft “I love you”, and John slipping from the bed. When he woke in the morning, the bed was empty.

He reached for his phone, which was pinging from its charger on the side table. Lestrade had been texting.

 _6:27 am_ I've got the forensic reports.

 _6:53 am_ Where are you? You're not going to believe what ballistics showed.

 _7:06 am_ You need to get here now. 

_7:07 am_ John's here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No really, the smut was an accident.


	7. Culprit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write a scene like this since I started the Tontine and this entire story was essentially developed around this scene.

Lestrade arrived at the Yard early, half expecting Sherlock to have somehow broken into his office in the middle of the night. He was happy when he exited the lift to find Sgt. Donovan waiting for him with forensics reports and a cup of coffee. 

He walked towards his office, sending a quick text to Sherlock while Sally trailed behind. Once he was settled behind his desk, he looked through the reports and honestly didn’t find them incredibly interesting. They at least had a name for the second vic though, Peter Norton, ex-military, no previous criminal record. 

“You need to see this,” said Sally, placing the file on Gwen Chevelier on the desk in front of him. 

“Sherlock was looking at this yesterday,” he said.

“I know, but look at the ballistics.”

Lestrade pulled the file over and looked over it, then looked over it again with sudden realization. He pulled the ballistic reports from the bullet found in Norton, or rather in the wall behind Norton. Sally pulled up a chair and they looked over the details carefully, verifying before they decided they were absolutely certain. Ignoring the floor as a few other officers and clerks who needed some extra time for paperwork began to arrive.

Sally smiled, “It’s the same gun, possibly the same shooter.”

“Christ,” said Lestrade. He looked at his phone, still nothing from Sherlock. He sent him another text. Lestrade and Sally began discussing that they’d need to start really digging for more information on all the victims, as well as Sebastian Moran, and Gwen Chevelier.

Ten minutes later they were interrupted by a knock on the door, Lestrade looked up to see John Watson standing, or rather leaning, in the doorway. Sally tilted her head at him, as if confused. He looked far more relaxed than normal, especially leaning his shoulder on the door-frame like that, and he was in jeans and a black t-shirt.

“John,” said Lestrade, unable to conceal the obvious surprise in his voice, “Sherlock’s been looking for you.”

“Has he?” John said, scrunching up his nose, “kind of surprising, had a bit of an argument last I saw him.”

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, recalling Sherlock suggesting John had drugged him, “he mentioned that.” The DI reached for his phone and sent a third text to Sherlock.

“You left from the scene really quickly yesterday,” said Sally, “Sherlock showed up right after you left.”

“You all got there really fast,” said John, smiling, “I was rather impressed.”

“Well, um,” Sally began, “is there something we can help you with?”

“Oh, right,” John laughed, still lazily leaning against the door-frame, “I’m here to turn myself in.”

“To—“ Sally tilted her head, “for what?”

John smiled, “Homicide.”

Lestrade sent his fourth text. Sally laughed, “No really.”

“No,” said John, “really. A few of them, actually.”

Sally seemed stunned. She knew he carried a gun, and she knew he’d used it in self-defense on a few occasions, but she also knew John knew the difference between self-defense and homicide. She remained in her chair and looked back to Lestrade.

The DI stood, “Let’s head back to an interrogation room.”

John held his hands out in front of him slightly, “Do you need to cuff me.”

“Well, since you’re turning yourself in,” said Lestrade, “that shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Right,” said John, dropping his hands, “that’s nice of you.”

“Are you armed?” asked Lestrade.

“No, left the gun at the hotel.”

Lestrade led John back to an empty interrogation room, where John happily seated himself in the chair facing the two-sided mirror. “Since you just turned yourself in for homicide, we’re going to have to lock you in,” said Lestrade, “and we’ll need a bit of time to, uh, get ready.”

John nodded, polite smile in place, “Take as long as you need.”

Lestrade nodded, trying to conceal confusion and failing. He left the room and stepped into the monitoring room where Sally was starting the video recording. John was drumming a mellow beat to some old classic rock song on the edge of the table with the palms of his hands and apparently singing along in his head. He looked like some bored teenager in the back of a math classroom.

“Think he’s been drugged?” asked Sally.

“We can run labs to be sure,” said Lestrade, “Call Dimmock down here, it’d be unethical for us to question him.”

“Right,” she said, exiting the room to call in the other DI. 

Lestrade watched John with growing concern, he’d never seen him so…relaxed? He didn’t have to wait long, as Dimmock had already been in the building as well and Sherlock came huffing into the monitoring room a few minutes later.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Sherlock, the slightest edge of panic present.

“Turned himself in,” said Sally, “says he committed ‘a few’ homicides. We haven’t started questioning him yet.”

Lestrade and Dimmock discussed their plan of action in the hallway and then Lestrade crammed himself into the monitoring room with Sally and Sherlock to watch the questioning.

When Dimmock entered the room, John immediately shook his head, “No, no, no.”

“Something the matter?” asked Dimmock.

“I turned myself in to Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan, not you,” said John, “I’m not talking to anyone but them, or Sherlock, mostly because he’s basically smarter than all of you, combined.”

“I’m not sure that we-“

“And more intimidating,” John continued to prattle, looking up at the ceiling for additional adjectives, “and attractive.”

“For the sake of police ethics it is required that-“

“Screw ethics. All three of them are in that little room,” John said, pointing towards the mirror, “Just send one of them in and piss off.”

“Should this go to trial—“

“Just do it,” said John, the captain’s voice emerging, “I don’t want a lawyer, I don’t care about your ethics, just go.” 

Dimmock sighed and looked at the mirror, “Very well then.”

Inside the monitoring room, the three exchanged raised eyebrows. “I could-“ Sherlock began.

“No,” said Lestrade firmly, “It needs to be an officer of Scotland Yard, I’ll do it.”

“Very well,” said Sherlock, “but ask him where on Earth he got that t-shirt.

“It’s disturbing, isn’t it?” said Sally, staring through the window, “John without a jumper.”

“We finally agree on something,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and exited the room, stopping to thank Dimmock for his efforts before entering the interrogation room himself. John was much more accepting of him as he welcomed him back with a smile.

The DI seated himself in front of John, who was now leaning back in his chair, lifting and dropping the front legs of the chair, again reminding Lestrade of a bored child. “Sherlock wants to know where you got that shirt,” he started, returning a polite smile to John who finally sat up properly. 

John’s smile widened, and he leaned to look around Lestrade and wave at the mirror, “Hello love, sorry about the sedatives.” He returned his attention to Lestrade, “He’s mad at me because I put a tranquilizer in his tea a couple nights ago.”

Lestrade was at a loss for words, giving a slight shake of his head.

“Oh, right, the shirt. I bought them at some general store, there were like six of them in a pack for five pounds.”

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Lestrade said, doing his best to rely on years of practice to help him stay professional and to ignore John’s abnormal behavior, “Please state your name for the record.”

“John Hamish Watson.”

Lestrade nodded once, “Good, thank you. Now, let’s talk about these homicides.”

“Ah, yes, homicide. Sherlock’s favorite.”

The DI did his best to keep his face stiff, “What is the name of your victim? And when and where did the events take place?”

“Peter Norton, at that house you investigated, right before you showed up, which, by the way, was extraordinarily quickly.”

“And for what reason did you kill him?”

“No, I mean like really fast. There’s no way you could’ve gotten there that fast without a preemptive phone call. Where'd the tip come from?”

“Please answer the question Dr. Watson.”

“Because he shot the banker, Thomas Moore, and a lot of other people,” John said with a shrug and a wave of his hand, “I shot an assassin.”

“What about Brian O’Neill?”

“What about him?” said John with a scoff, “That arse should have been shot years ago.”

Lestrade reminded himself to stay professional, “When you turned yourself in, you said there were ‘a few’ murders.”

“Homicides.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said there were a few homicides. It’s not really the same thing,” said John, “I mean, yes, technically, but a murder is something you feel guilty about, a homicide is just something you do.”

For a moment, Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s voice ringing through his head, _'They should name a mental illness after him'_. Lestrade cleared his throat, “Tell me about these other homicides then.”

“Well,” said John, puffing air into a cheek while he thought, and then blowing the air out in a long puff before answering, “There was the cabbie, and that really tall bloke, and of course Reggi-shot him in the face, and I shot Patchett while he was in that cage but he was mostly dead already, and I blew up Hakim, and—“

“Stop,” said Lestrade, holding out a hand, “stop, stop for just a moment.”

John looked at him expectantly.

“How many people have you killed?”

John pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling as he counted on his fingers. Then he stopped and looked to Lestrade, “Are we counting army kills?”

“Sure,” said Lestrade.

“Then I don’t know, probably, eh, a hundred? Ish? I never really got the point of keeping count, seems a bit proud, like keeping a trophy,” John said as he scrunched up his face with distaste.

Lestrade sat with his mouth hanging open for a moment before composing himself, “And not counting military?”

John thought about it, biting his lip and squinting one eye as he looked up for an answer, “To be honest I lost count around the fifth one but I think its somewhere around fifteen? Twenty maybe?”

Lestrade swore and rubbed a hand over his face, letting it rest over his agape mouth, “And how many of those would you say were self-defense?”

John shrugged, “I dunno, half? Two-thirds? Wait, does it count if I’m defending someone else?”

Lestrade realized he felt sick and there was a slight tremor in his hand, he shouldn’t still be running the interrogation but he couldn’t stop himself, “How many would you say occurred before you met Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not counting military?”

“Right,” Lestrade said with a hesitant nod.

John counted, tapping fingers on the table as he thought over his answer, “Six?”

“And before joining the military?”

“One,” said John firmly, “and that one was self-defense.”

“Why aren’t any of these on record?”

John shrugged again, “I was never arrested for any of them.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, “Why turn yourself in now?”

“Oh, yeah, no, I just need protection for a little while. Seb is looking for me, he’s all pissed because I wouldn’t shoot Mycroft.”

“M-Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yeah,” John laughed, “Who’d be stupid enough to shoot the brother of the person their romantically involved with?” He leaned to the side again to look at the mirror, “He’s fine by the way, says it’s touching that you keep trying to contact him.”

“Did you kidnap Mycroft Holmes?” Lestrade caught himself asking.

John frowned, “Temporarily displaced.”

“No,” said Lestrade, “Nope.” He stood, “You’re takin’ the piss.” 

John laughed.

“Sherlock said you were a damn good liar, and you are clearly just-“ he stumbled looking for the right word, “If you just need protection—“

John waved his hand in front of him, “Run along detective, you’re dismissed.”

Lestrade half glared-half stared in wonderment and then stormed out of the room. When he wrenched open the door to the monitoring room, he found Sherlock focusing intensely on John and a clearly shaken Sally staring anywhere but at John.

“A hundred-ish?” she said, “I mean, I knew about some of the recent ones, like the cabbie, but how can he just sit there like that number doesn’t matter?”

“He’s lying,” said Lestrade, “this all has to be some act or—Sherlock?”

“I don’t think he is,” said Sherlock, “though I’ve thought that before. He truly is a remarkable liar, but I _know_ John Watson has an extremely rigid moral code. I can guarantee anyone who has lost their life to that man either was extremely close to death and in pain, or was threatening the lives of others.”

“But?” asked Lestrade.

“He _is_ lying about Mycroft, my brother wouldn’t go anywhere he didn’t want to be, and he _is_ lying about the protection. He could easily get that simply by staying in the same location as Mycroft.”

“So why is he here?” asked Donovan.

_Bait._

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock, “I need to observe him more. The way he’s acting is—“

“Weird,” finished Sally, “It’s freaking me out.”

Sherlock hummed at the statement.

“Something else we need to consider,” interrupted Lestrade, “He said he killed Peter Norton, our second vic from yesterday. This morning, Sgt. Donovan and I confirmed that the ballistics of the bullet that killed Peter Norton matched that of the one that killed Gwen Chevelier.”


	8. Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to need so much editing, I'll look over it again tomorrow. But: Three chapters in one day! Woot!
> 
> A gigantic thank you to my supporters, both new and old! I love you guys! :)

They decided to keep John under observation for a few hours before attempting to question him again. There were laws about how long a suspect could be kept in an interrogation room, but John was more than obliging as long as they brought him a newspaper and some tea.

Sherlock managed to convince Lestrade to send someone for the box of files Mycroft’s Assistant had delivered to Baker Street and the Assistant herself delivered some additional files on Chevelier and Moran. The detective turned the monitoring room into a tiny research space.

The more he searched the more evident it became that John Watson, Sebastian Moran, Reginald Watts, and Elizabeth Michaels had made up the original team of killers who had assassinated Miss Chevelier. It seemed highly probable that the shot had been fired by John. All four of them were ex-military with a blank year in their records, with the exception of Moran who had been assigned to keep a small Afghani science lab secure during that same missing year. Michaels and Moran had both been listed as AWOL shortly after the blank year of service and had done a damn good job of falling off the grid.

John Watson had been promoted to Captain and assigned to serve under Major Watts at the Hovel. The rest was history, so to speak. None of this really helped to determine the two vital pieces of information he needed. Who was paying the assassins and ordered the original kill and what exactly had Miss Chevelier stumbled onto in the first place?

Near ten o’clock, John agreed to a drug screening, and around eleven he began asking about food and requesting he be allowed to speak to Sherlock. Lestrade went in to talk to him while Sherlock observed from the other side of the mirror.

“I just asked a clerk to go fetch something for you to eat,” said Lestrade as he entered the room, “but I’m not sure about letting you see Sherlock.”

“You know,” said John, “I’ve been awfully patient with you all and I don’t necessarily have to keep talking. I could start asking for a lawyer.”

“Are you giving me an ultimatum?”

“Is it working?”

“John,” Lestrade said, in that irritated, commanding tone that occasionally emerged from the man.

John sat up properly, suddenly looking more like himself, more sincere, “I need to talk to him. It’s important, to do with the case. I know he’s angry but—“

There was a knock on the door, Lestrade opened it and sighed when he found Sherlock standing there. “You sure?” he asked, “The man did drug you.”

“Fair trade,” Sherlock said with a half-hearted fake smile, “If it’s to do with the case, I should listen.”

“Fine.”

Lestrade stepped aside to let Sherlock enter and then sighed and exited when both flatmates gave him that, Can you give us a minute? look. He went immediately to the monitoring room.

Sherlock seated himself at the table but he was still cold, distant, acting as if John was any other criminal. “You said you needed to tell me something, so talk.”

“You’re stuck.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because all the people with good information are either dead or holding guns.”

“Except you.”

“Except me,” John smiled.

“So what am I missing?”

“It’s not so much what you’re missing as what you’ve forgotten.”

Sherlock glared, “I don’t forget things, John, not unless I intend to.”

“Oh please,” John scoffed, “I know you better than that.”

“What did I forget?”

“That night at the pub, you said Henderson was working on an article for someone big.”

“A politician most likely, I remember.”

John smiled.

_Michael Stronge._

John’s smile widened, recognizing the realization on Sherlock’s face, “Good.”

“What about Chevelier?”

“When I was in the service,” said John, “I was assigned to guard duty for this crummy little lab. I shared my shifts with a guy named Ihsan Afzal. He used to tell me that I didn’t belong in the army, but that I wasn’t a civilian either. He gave me a nickname, but there aren’t really a lot of lone predator’s in the desert.”

“Go on.”

“Earlier, I told Greg that the difference between a homicide and a murder is that you feel guilty about a murder.”

Sherlock looked over him carefully and noted, that while he was hiding it well, that same mild tremor was present in John’s hand. It was like talking about Malik all over again.

“You murdered Ihsan Afzal?”

“He was the first of four.”

A knock interrupted them.

“That’ll be your lunch,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade watched the events unfold incredibly quickly. The woman delivering the little tray of food opened the door, John stood and lifted his chair, the woman dropped the tray and raised a gun, the chair left John’s hands and he began a dash around the table, the woman’s shot missed as she was knocked back into the wall by the chair, John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and heaved him up from his chair, the woman aimed again, John aimed a gun of his own, John fired, the woman fell. John took a step closer and shot the already dead woman in the head. 

Lestrade drew his gun and was in the hall as quickly as possible and was met by John, his own pistol raised and aimed directly at Greg’s head. There was a knocking noise and Sherlock’s muffled voice and Greg glanced to see John had locked Sherlock in the interrogation room with the would-be assassin. 

“You’re in a police station, John,” said the DI, “no one is going to just let you walk out of here.”

“True,” said John. Lestrade couldn’t help but feel that familiar chill of being face to face with a serial killer. John had those same steady, determined eyes, that aura of confidence killers always seemed to have. He could hear the scuffle of other officers behind him, guns drawn and ready, while unarmed clerks ducked for cover.

“Just put the gun down,” said Lestrade, “Nice and slow and no one else needs to get hurt.”

“Okay,” said John, his voice reassuring. He let go of his grip, letting the gun dangle on his trigger finger. Slowly, he squatted and placed the gun on the floor, his hands up in a surrendering pose as he moved back into a standing position. 

“Take a step back,” said Lestrade. 

John obliged, hands still up but his eyes still steady. Everything about him screamed, ‘You haven’t caught me yet’.

Lestrade took a step forward to kick the gun on the floor behind him for another officer to grab. “I’m going to holster my gun and get my cuffs, there are more officers still aiming at you and they will shoot if you fail to cooperate.”

“Understood.”

The DI holstered his gun, and reached back for his cuffs and moved toward John. He placed one cuff onto the doctor and then felt a firm grip on his wrist and a shove to one of his feet so that he spun away from John and yet remained within his grip. The gun in his holster was drawn and he felt the cold tip of the barrel against his head.

“It’s a hallway, Greg,” said John, “as if any of them could get a clear shot.”

“God damnit, John!” Lestrade yelled, but the soldier behind him just tightened his hold, causing his shoulder to throb with pain.

“If everyone would please just put their guns down,” said John, that disturbingly polite smile on his face once more, “I can leave without anyone getting seriously hurt, and I promise to leave dear Greg here in one piece and without a hole in his head.”

Two days ago, no one would have taken the threat seriously. Now? He’d confessed to twenty non-military involved homicides and locked Sherlock Holmes in an interrogation room with the corpse of a woman he’d shot while in police custody. They lowered their weapons, Sally most begrudgingly of all. 

“Now step back, away and with your hands in the air,” said John, shoving Lestrade forward. He managed to get into the lift without shots fired. He intimidated Lestrade into pushing the button for the ground floor for him.

When the lift doors closed, Lestrade ventured to speak again, “What the hell are you thinking, John?”

“Look,” said John, relaxing his grip ever so slightly on Greg’s arm, “This is all really complicated and honestly you’ll probably never get a clear answer, but blame Mycroft.”

“There are going to be heavily armed officers waiting for you on the ground floor.”

“Yeah,” said John, slamming the butt end of the pistol into Greg’s head, “I know.”

 

#

 

When the lift reached the ground floor, the only one inside was an unconscious DI. 

Sherlock identified the would-be assassin as Elizabeth Michaels, or Beth, as John called her.

By the time they’d checked every floor and accepted the fact John had vanished from the building, someone finally noticed that the video equipment in the monitoring room had been fried. All the footage was gone, along with all of the files Sherlock had gathered into the room.

Sherlock strongly suspected that someone in Scotland Yard’s homicide division was receiving a second paycheck from MI5.

If he was being honest, Sherlock had to admit that was both the most stupid thing John had ever done and one of the most clever. Mycroft no doubt had someone close to Michael Stronge that could feed him information. They let Stronge know John had turned himself in, that he thought he was somewhere safe. Then they watched and waited and gave some small signal to John that they’d created an opening for his would-be killer. She would have let herself be arrested. When her benefactor became Prime Minister, it would be easy to get her charges dropped and swept under the rug. Mycroft may have composed it, but John had conducted it beautifully. 

John had even convinced Sherlock to bring a gun.

Sherlock felt both manipulated and proud. More importantly, he felt safe. With John and Mycroft both working together to protect him, he felt slightly invincible. 

John had played the bait beautifully and given him the information he needed to sort out the last of the case. Once he pieced together the last of it, Stronge and Moran would come running. His protector’s would be ready.

Finally, Sherlock felt the thrill of the case settle in his bones.


	9. Triggerman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is apparently having a silly day, but in his defense he has done a great deal of sitting around and waiting with nothing much to do.
> 
> The next chapter will probably be up Tuesday instead of tomorrow, but the story is quickly drawing to a close!

Sherlock wasted little time searching for his missing files and missing blogger at Scotland Yard. No doubt both had already made it back to Mycroft’s lair within an hour. Instead, he went to the hospital to see Lestrade. 

He had a concussion, and required a few stitches, but John had done very little permanent damage except to maybe Lestrade’s pride and friendship. When Sherlock entered the little hospital room, Greg greeted him with a groan, “Next time you see your boyfriend tell him he’s a right wanker and mad as a bag of ferrets.”

“I suppose you’ve never really seen him at work.”

“Not like that,” said Lestrade, “that was bloody terrifying.”

“He’d never actually shoot you,” said Sherlock.

“I think everyone at the Yard would have difficulty believing that at the moment. Did you see him? I’ve only ever seen that look in the eyes of killers, extremely dangerous killers.”

“If he wanted you dead, John Watson would have killed you already,” said Sherlock coldly, “but here you are.”

The DI rolled his eyes in response.

“He doesn’t kill for enjoyment, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, irritation growing in his tone, “He does it to protect others. It’s something I’ve always appreciated about John, he makes the hard decisions, but ultimately every killer earns that look. They have to distance themselves, how else are they to survive?”

Lestrade exhaled a deep breath, Sherlock was making an unusual effort to defend him. The DI trusted Sherlock to be able to set aside emotion long enough to come to a rational conclusion and he had to admit that Sherlock knew and understood both John and the situation better than he did. “Can you tell me anything about what the hell is going on? He said to blame Mycroft right before knocking me out.”

Sherlock hummed, “Miss Chevelier stumbled onto a news story that would threaten national security if it was leaked. John, for reasons yet unknown, is in the difficult position that _if_ it went public, he’d become the fall guy.”

“Why the show at the Yard?”

“Elizabeth Michaels functions mostly as intelligence,” explained Sherlock, “people in that position generally work behind the lines. By locating himself in an interrogation room at the Yard, he created a controlled environment where they’d send someone for him. What’s more tempting than an unarmed enemy in a box? But, there are no windows in an interrogation room, making Moran’s skills as a sniper useless and their close proximity shooter, Mr. Norton, had been killed the day prior. It was all designed to lure Michaels closer.”

“Where’d he pull that gun?”

Sherlock looked down at the floor guiltily, and then back at Lestrade, “I didn’t know what they were planning.”

“They?”

“Mycroft.”

Lestrade groaned again.

“Mycroft’s power in the government makes him a threat to the person who is truly responsible for both Miss Chevelier’s murder and the recent string of assassinations. John’s convinced him to hide away in a safe place, but he’s still pulling strings. I believe Mycroft has extended John a deal. If John kills the others involved in Miss Chevelier’s death, he can make sure everything goes away and John continues a normal life. If he fails and it all goes public, John takes the fall alone.”

“That’s a shit deal.”

“I agree, but John is not a selfish man. He doesn’t take a life unless it will save another’s. He’d be willing to take the fall if it was the easiest, least bloody path.”

Lestrade considered it all and came to the quick conclusion he’d never actually get to know the entire truth about this case and that the minute John had taken his final shot, Mycroft would swoop in and remove any evidence that it happened at all. So instead he asked what he really wanted to know, “A hundred-ish. Do you think John really killed all those people?”

Sherlock frowned, “Yes.”

“And you really think he’s still a good man?”

“The best.”

Lestrade looked down at him, glancing over him with his own trained eye, “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock answered anyway, “Yes.”

The DI smiled, “He’s still a wanker.”

Sherlock returned the smile, “I’ll be sure to tell him once I find him.” 

“Go,” said Lestrade, waving a hand at him, “Solve the case, save your boyfriend, cause mayhem.”

Sherlock smirked and turned to leave but stopped when Lestrade called his name.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Lestrade?”

“Tell him,” he said, “if you haven’t already, tell him you love him.”

It occurred to Sherlock just how much Greg had done for him over the years. He’d helped him while he was just some drug-addled slum on the street, taken enormous risk by giving him access to cold cases, defended him against the cruelty of the other officers, patiently accepted Sherlock’s less friendly personality traits while encouraging his worth and intelligence, stood by him when Moriarty had destroyed his reputation, welcomed him back from the dead with a smile, trusted him time and again. 

“Thank you, Greg,” said Sherlock, “thank you, and I will.”

Greg dismissed him with a smile and nod.

 

#

 

Sherlock returned to Baker Street. It was time to put everything he had into figuring out what Gwen Chevelier had discovered. John had given him clear directions to search in.

He started by contacting acquaintances and sources he’d gathered while destroying Moriarty’s network. He sent out a call for any and all information on two mercenaries, Spider and Jackal. Then, he contacted Mycroft’s Assistant and called in favors from sources in other governments to search for information on Ihsan Afzal and the Afghani Lab where this all started.

There was nothing left to do but wait. He hated it, especially without John there to ease the biting dullness of it, but he waited. 

Several hours later, information began to trickle in. Tiny pieces of information began to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle to create a whole picture.

If the inhumane torture occurring at the Hovel would create international tension for Britain, then the illegal human experimentation occurring inside the little unnamed Afghani lab would have started a war. It was unclear just what _exactly_ was being researched within the building, but all evidence showed that prisoners went in and only ever came out as cremated ashes. The funding for the work, according to one source, had been funneled through a number of international accounts. Further digging from yet another source found the origin of the finances came from someone working within the British government with ties to military resources. 

Less than a dozen soldiers were stationed there, all security. 

But then, some of the soldiers witnessed something.

One of the soldiers met a journalist.

The order was made to burn down the project, literally, and to kill any witnesses, with the exception of a small, trusted team.

The evidence existed in fragments, bits of stories, and seemingly unrelated documents spread over continents. Once the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were put together, it was only to find gaping holes in the image. Unless someone was looking, really looking, they’d never see the entire picture. To lay it all out and then point the finger at Michael Stronge bordered on wild conspiracy theorist behavior. And yet, Sherlock had no doubt.

John murdered Ihsan Afzal and Gwen Chevelier, not because they were bad or evil or dangerous, but because their good intentions would lead to a war that would cost thousands their lives. Sometimes, it was better just to let evil disappear and be forgotten. And that was why he felt guilty, because they didn’t deserve to die. 

Sherlock considered John’s tattoo, a jackal’s head with “You’ll meet me in the Great Perhaps” printed in Pashto below it. Ihsan had been a friend, had given him the name Jackal, and then John had killed him. It was a reminder and a promise that his friend would have the chance to pass judgment.

While the detective pieced together what he could of what had led to Miss Chevelier’s death, he was also receiving information on his two mercenaries. The Spider, Sebastian Moran, was an extraordinarily talented sniper with a trademark shot pattern. Before the night was through, Sherlock had received six different ways to contact him for his services and an exceedingly long list of victims. He took pride in his work, there was no doubt, and the only thing that prevented from taking a job was the quality of the paycheck. 

The Jackal on the other hand was a different matter. It took some time just to find someone who recognized the name. From them, he learned that while Jackal was talented at what he did, it was extremely difficult to convince him to take a job. To the person’s knowledge, Jackal had done a few jobs about ten years ago, and then five years ago, and one just two years ago. By Sherlock’s estimate, that meant John had taken jobs during his service, and then one or two in the time between being discharged and when he met Sherlock, and one additional one while Sherlock had been not dead. He felt that he needed to ask what John considered “not long, and not recently” to mean.

Near half past midnight he received a phone call from an anonymous number.

Sherlock answered it with a firm, “Hello.”

The voice that answered was that of an older woman, a rich Iraqi accent, and an out-of-place motherly warmth in her tone, “I understand you are looking for Jackal.”

“How did you-“

“With as many lines as you’ve cast tonight, are you honestly surprised?” she joked.

“No,” he said, “Where can I find him?”

“He’s retired, though he’s said that before,” she chuckled, “It isn’t easy to convince him to take a job these days.”

“I don’t need him to kill anyone, I just need information.”

“That isn’t his line of work.”

“Then what is his line of work?”

She chuckled again, “Pest control.”

Sherlock frowned, “It is urgent that I speak with him.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she said before rattling off a phone number and hanging up on him.

The detective sat down on the couch and dialed the number, with a deep breath he pressed ‘call’.

 

#

 

John Watson was bored.

When he first arrived at Mycroft’s little hideaway he was happy to get a bit of a rest and some tea. Climbing up the elevator shaft to the vacant thirteenth floor of Scotland Yard had not been easy, and then he’d had to wait for the idiot from MI5 to show up with a spare uniform so he could make his way out of the building, though it still wasn’t easy avoiding people who knew him since that was essentially everyone in the damn building. It had helped that they were all in a bit of a tizzy.

Now, he thought he might go insane if he had to remain inside Mycroft’s stupid panic room much longer. Granted, Mycroft’s idea of a panic room was a sub-basement level that expanded the entire length of his house. It included a kitchen and guest bedroom with an adjoining bathroom in addition to its control room where Mycroft entertained himself watching CCTV and pulling the strings of the British government. But that was all Mycroft felt was needed for entertainment aside from some dreadfully dull books, most of which were in languages John couldn't read. 

So, John began to entertain himself by attempting to annoy Mycroft. He’d dedicated several hours to the task. Thus far, he’d tried: asking Mycroft increasingly odd questions exactly every twenty minutes (including but not limited to: Who would win in a fight: a deviled egg or a ham sandwich?, What would you do if Sherlock became a tuna fish?, Is the meaning of life really 42? Do you suppose that the Universe actually exists in a petri dish? And, What exactly is the function of a rubber duck?), turning all of the furniture in one of the rooms upside down, narrating the events shown on the CCTV cameras in funny accents, attempting to create tiny braids in Mycroft’s hair, disorganizing Mycroft’s sock drawer, locating a label maker and proceeding to label everything with wildly inappropriate names (he got a raised eyebrow when he slapped a label that read “Supreme Wanker of the Universe” across Mycroft’s forehead), and sitting next to Mycroft in front of his little evil-master-mind CCTV control center and pointing at each button while asking, “What does this button do? What about this one? And this button?” (There were fifty-three buttons in all and Mycroft had patiently explained each one.)

Now, John had pulled his feet onto the seat of a spinning office chair and was using his hands to push himself off the back of Mycroft’s chair to set himself spinning. Each time he’d lift his hands in the air and yell, “Wheeeee!”

Finally the dizziness got to him and he had to stop, which was fine since the clock read 12:39. He waited for the minute hand to change and said, “Hey Mycroft, would you rather fight a hundred duck sized horses or one horse sized duck?”

Mycroft shifted in his chair to look at John with a raised eyebrow, when a mobile went off. John dug in his pocket to pull out a battered old mobile, “John’s Sausage Delivery Service, how may I help you?”

“Lestrade says you’re a right wanker and mad as a bag of ferrets.”

“I will be if I have to spend another minute with your brother.”

Mycroft stood up, “Oh thank God, he’s found the number.”

John smiled, “So have you sorted it out?”

“Human experimentation?”

“That’s about what I know too,” said John, “never actually went in the building.”

“What now?”

“You set up a meeting with Stronge,” said John.

“Let me speak to him,” said Mycroft, holding out a demanding hand. John rolled his eyes and handed it over, he supposed he’d tortured Mycroft enough for one day.

Mycroft lifted the mobile to his ear, “Never leave me alone with your insane boyfriend again.”

John almost fell out of his chair laughing.

“Is he forcing you to eat every meal and drink an abundance of tea?” asked Sherlock, smiling at the sound of John’s laughter on the other end of the call.

“He’s like babysitting a gigantic ten year old,” said Mycroft, “He turned an entire dining set upside down and then proceeded to ask me if I thought tyrannosaurus rex had problems with gingivitis since they couldn’t reach their mouths to floss.”

“Don’t you have a television?”

“Why would I have a television in my control room?”

Sherlock sighed, “Where should I meet Stronge?”

Mycroft composed himself and glared John into doing the same, “Listen carefully.”


	10. Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My meeting ran short, so I had a little time to write today after all. This chapter is short, but it is set up for the finale! 
> 
> I would like to note that I chose Stronge's political party by flipping a coin, there is no intended reason or meaning in selecting his party. I'm also basically just making up names of buildings, so if by coincidence one of them is real, the geography and mapping will be way off. 
> 
> It's a little hard for me to believe there are just two chapters left to go! I'm considering writing a set of one-shot stories, single chapter shorts, and would love to know your thoughts on prompt ideas or where to go for prompts. 
> 
> Thank you again for your support! You have all been a muse for my writing.

Michael Stronge’s campaign headquarters was located in a dingy, run-down office building near the center of London. Like most politicians, Stronge was a salesman first and a businessman second. In his spare time, he might take a moment to consider his constituents. 

He was motivated by power and a desire to control. He’d led his campaign, and the campaigns of his peers, through carefully planned and crafted facades. The voters wanted a person they could relate to, someone down to Earth, someone who wasn’t rolling in money. Thus, he’d set up base in his dumpy office building, bought cheap suits, and frequently ditched his suit jacket to roll up his sleeves and appear as if he’d been working. He shook hands and kissed babies and made promises and made underhanded deals with his party members. He did this knowing that if the polls continued to lean in his favor he’d be moving into 10 Downing Street in just a matter of a few short months.

Once he’d accrued the title of Prime Minister, he could begin opening doorways to the foreign businesses and researchers who had been grappling for a foothold in the UK for over a decade. Then he could retire from politics and count his personal wealth pound by pound while he lived and died in the lap of luxury. 

He’d been concerned when that idiot photographer had started blabbing his mouth about that damned eugenics lab; but, like always, Seb was doing a fantastic job of cleaning up the mess before it became a real problem. It was a shame, and somewhat tedious, that Watson wasn’t being more compliable, Beth had been damn good at her work after all, but it would be easy to draw him out with the proper bait.

What good fortune that the perfect bait to catch not only John Watson but Mycroft Holmes as well had just waltzed into his office.

 

#

 

Sherlock had some appreciation for the fact that Stronge didn’t so much as bother to stand when the secretary led him into the politician’s office. 

“I’m sorry sir,” said the meek woman from the front desk, “He was extremely insistent that he see you. Says it’s to do with a police investigation.”

“Not a problem Cheryl,” Stronge said with a well-practiced smile, “I had a feeling Mr. Holmes here might be coming for a visit.”

Sherlock noted the way her shoulders relaxed, “I’ll bring some coffee—“

“No need,” said Sherlock, “I’m sure I won’t be staying long.”

She nodded and quietly found her way out of the office, shutting the door behind her.

Stronge dropped the smile as soon as the door clicked shut, “Have a seat, Mr. Holmes.”

The detective swept a keen eye over Stronge, everything about him screamed politician, all the way to his blonde wife, golden retriever, and brunette lover. “As I said,” replied Sherlock, “I won’t be long.”

“I presume your research has come to some fruition?” asked Stronge, “You do know it is illegal to hack into government databases, Mr. Holmes. Not just here in England, but Iraq, Scotland, America, Egypt, Afghanistan, and South Korea as well.”

“And you are aware that unsanctioned experimentation on unwilling human participants violates not only local law but the Geneva Convention's?” said Sherlock, “Or perhaps you’d prefer to discuss your embezzlement? Your numerous affairs? Animal cruelty? Or all those foreign businessmen funding your campaign?”

Stronge smirked, “You are aware of the actions willingly taken by Captain Watson at the Hovel, aren’t you? Not much room for Convention Law there.”

“True,” said Sherlock, “which should stand as evidence enough that I am willing to look the other way if given proper motivation.”

“Are you offering a deal?”

“My silence for John Watson’s life.”

“And what’s to keep him silent? Or your brother?”

Sherlock scoffed at him, “Don’t be stupid.”

“You believe they’d remain silent?”

“Have they spoken up yet?” said Sherlock, “No, they haven’t. They’ve been too busy silencing your assassins.”

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Holmes,” said Stronge, “It’s easy to calculate that there is no benefit to them to remain silent or to stop their manhunt.”

“I disagree on all accounts Mr. Stronge. My brother has covered up far more scandalous events for the sake of national security, no one is interested in a war or any other repercussions from foreign parties. They would be willing to let this all pass quietly into the night, if given the chance to discuss it.”

“And you could arrange that? A discussion?”

“Yes.”

“Time and place?”

“You choose the place, I’ll choose the time.”

“And you’ll deliver both Mr. Holmes and Captain Watson?” asked Stronge.

“Will Mr. Moran be joining us?”

Stronge inhaled deeply, “Mr. Moran prefers not to meet anyone face-to-face.”

“Then Captain Watson will not be joining us.”

“I’ll speak with Sebastian.”

“Please do,” said Sherlock.

“And I’ll send word on the location.”

Sherlock placed a hand on the door handle, “I’ll respond with a time to confirm the arrival of your message.”

Stronge smiled, “Thank you Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock returned the smile with his own well-practiced façade, “Of course, it will be a comfort to have this all over with.” Sherlock left the office, coat fluttering behind him.

Stronge smiled as he watched Sherlock disappear from the building. The smile was more genuine, more sinister, "Human after all, Mr. Holmes?"

 

#

 

The text came in late that night.

_Kingsburry Center, roof, M looks forward to seeing W again_

Sherlock smiled and responded.

_7:30 pm, he’ll be there -SH_


	11. Caretaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter to go. I'm a bit sad to be so close to the end, but I've loved writing this little trilogy. 
> 
> An enormous thank you to all of you who've read and supported my work! :)

When it was built, the Kingsburry Business Center had wowed and wondered passersby with its astounding forty-six floors. The wonders of its architecture had long ago become obsolete in the face of more daring engineers and architects but for a short time, it had captivated people. 

Three years after the Kingsburry Center was opened, a competitor constructed a bland forty-eight floor building called the Oak Tower just to the west of the Kingsburry Center. Ten years later, when both businesses had gone bankrupt and the buildings bought out by young businessmen who knew nothing of the history, a fifty-nine floor hotel paneled in mirrored glass was developed to the east of the old Kingsburry Center. 

The area continued to develop, more buildings of similar height cropped up and a freeway wound its path along the south side of the building. The once bold and innovative building became just another old business office, forgotten and ignored.

John considered the options. If the target was on the roof of the Kingsburry Center, his first choice was to climb to the top of the Oak Tower as it would provide the closest and cleanest shot. Sherlock had been clever in his timing however, the sun would be setting over the buildings at 7:35 and the mirrored glass would send back a blinding light that made the Oak Tower useless for any sniper, no matter their talent. 

He could go to the hotel, but due to old constructs and design, none of the windows actually opened and the shot would have to be taken from the roof while aiming into the sunset. It was less than ideal. There were buildings to the north that were usable, but the shot would be difficult to make because of the large bill-boards the owner of the Kingsburry Business Center had erected in search of extra income for the building.

He considered what he knew of Sebastian’s talents and preferences. Around noon, he chose a building and climbed to the roof to wait for Moran’s arrival.

 

#

 

Sherlock _despised_ this waiting, _loathed_ it with an intensity he didn’t realize he could feel for an abstract idea. The seconds seemed to tick by slowly, building minutes slower than the Egyptians had built the pyramids. Waiting for an hour to pass was next to impossible.

He made attempts at passing the time by distracting himself from the long list of things that could go wrong by toiling with experiments but after he ruined the fifth slide he gave up. He turned on the telly, turned it off again, idly swept his bow over his violin, and paced about the flat for what felt like ages but was in truth only two hours. 

Mrs. Hudson must have sensed his angst, as she arrived in the flat with a tray of tea and biscuits around noon. She poured them both a cup and encouraged him to at least nibble at the biscuits.

“Don’t fret dear,” she said as she later collected the empty cups onto the tray, “John will be home soon.”

He tilted his head at her, realizing he wasn’t entirely sure what John had told her to explain his sporadic absences.

“To be honest,” she said conspiratorially, “I rather think that sister of his abuses his kindness.” She smiled at him, “But then family is family.”

“Bit of a lottery,” he said, “one’s family.”

“You should get out of the flat,” said Mrs. Hudson, “Perhaps they have something for you at the Yard?”

“Excellent idea!” said Sherlock, granting her a smile, “I’ll go and see Lestrade.”

For once, he actually did as promised. Preparing for the day and making his way to Lestrade gave him something to focus on. He arrived at the Yard to find that the officers and clerks remained on edge about yesterday’s events, though it wasn't surprising. Lestrade was in his office with Donovan, commiserating the loss of evidence.

“Should you be at work with that concussion?” he asked as he entered the office.

“You’re going to love this,” said Lestrade, with something akin to a glare but lacking the anger.

“Has something happened?” asked Sherlock, “Another murder?”

Donovan rolled her eyes, “No.”

“We’ve written three separate arrest warrants for John Watson, as well as two missing persons reports, and a few other things,” said Lestrade.

“And?”

“And every time we do,” said Donovan, “It disappears ten minutes later.”

“Isn’t it rather idiotic to keep trying then?” said Sherlock, reminding himself not to smirk.

“Does he actually work for your brother?” asked Lestrade.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, “he finds Mycroft dull and pompous.”

Donovan laughed and shook her head, “Perfect match, the two of you. Maybe I should’ve been warning _you_ away from _him_.”

Sherlock placed a hand over his heart and feigned an affectionate look, “Why Sally, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Shut it, you prat,” she said.

Lestrade looked back and forth between them and then groaned, “My head already hurts too much for you two to start acting friendly. What do you need Sherlock?”

“A distraction,” he said.

“We don’t have anything new on the case, but there’ve been a few other cases come in in the last couple days.”

“Perfect.”

 

#

 

Sherlock was solving his fourth cold case when the clock struck seven. He placed the files on Lestrade’s desk with a few scribbled notes and left the Yard. His mobile pinged just as he hailed a cab.

‘John and I will handle the rest, return home to Baker St. – MH’

Sherlock frowned at the mobile in his hand when the second text came in.

‘He doesn’t want you caught in the crossfire and your presence is not required. –MH’

He sighed and resentfully told the cabbie to return him to Baker Street.

 

#

 

At 7:37 another text came in, this one from the same number Stronge had used to send him the location.

‘Where are they?’

Sherlock considered his answer before responding, ‘Where are you? –SH’

‘I’m not suicidal’

‘You’ve answered your own question –SH’

There was not another response. There was however, the crack of gunfire on the street.

 

#

 

John received the text at 7:28. It was a picture of Sherlock arriving at the flat, it had just been taken, John knew it had just been taken because he’d watched Seb take it.

“Not the best quality,” said John. 

He watched Moran’s shoulders tense for a split second and then relax.

“C’mon Seb, hands off the rifle,” John commanded calmly. 

The former colonel turned around to look at him, “You’ve got a bit of a sunburn.”

“Been waiting on you all day,” said John, his pistol raised and aimed.

“Shouldn’t you be at the Kingsburry Center?” Seb answered with a smile.

“Shouldn’t you?”

Seb laughed.

“I have to say,” said John, “this was all a bit predictable, especially from you.”

“You flatterer.”

“You haven’t even drawn a pistol, what am I missing?”

Seb laughed again, “You’ve been spending too much time with those Holmes brothers. Sometimes things really are that simple.”

“Stronge didn’t think we’d predict you’d be simple?”

“Just another arrogant politician.”

John smiled, but kept his pistol trained on Moran’s head, “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither of you, John,” he said, broadening his smile, friendly, comfortable, “Go on, shoot me then.”

The smiled slid away from John’s face, giving way to a mild frown, his hand relaxing around the gun, “I’m getting tired of shooting old friends.”

“It does seem to be a habit with you, John,” said Seb with another laugh, “Sherlock had better watch out.”

John sighed, the bullet hit Moran between the eyes.

 

#

 

‘You’re a bloody arsehole –SH’

‘You were perfectly safe. –MH’

Sherlock called John, who picked up on the second ring.

“You alright?” asked the doctor.

“Fine, you?”

“Will be,” he said, “when this is finished.”

“You can’t shoot Stronge, John,” said Sherlock, “even Mycroft wouldn’t be able to stop that investigation.”

“Sure I can,” said John, Sherlock heard the sound of a car door, “I’ll be home later.” The sound of an ignition.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I didn’t know you knew how to drive.”

Sherlock smiled at the sound of John’s laughter.

 

#

 

Stronge paced the length of his office, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall. 8:52, Sebastian should have called an hour ago. He hadn’t heard anything though, from anyone. 

He startled at the sound of a knock on his office door and looked to find his secretary.

“Sorry sir,” she said, “I just wanted to let you know I’d be leaving for the day, unless you need anything else?”

“No,” he smiled, “No, go home, get some rest.”

“Thank you sir,” she said, “you should too.”

“I’ll head home soon,” he assured her.

With a smile and a nod, she exited the office. He listened to the sounds of her closing down her computer, collecting her things, and leaving the building. He settled into his chair, his fingers working circles over his temples.

“Stress is bad for your health you know.”

Stronge jumped from his seat to see John Watson leaning in his doorway. 

“How did you get in here?”

“You do realize the security guards you’re provided all work for the government don’t you? MI5?” said John, “Though I did have to wait for your secretary to leave. Very dedicated, that woman. You should pay her more.”

“You can’t shoot me,” said Stronge, “people will look for you.”

John smiled politely, “I beg to differ.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Stronge, “you don’t even have your gun.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Stronge,” John said, gesturing towards Stronge’s office chair, displaying his very best bedside manner.

The doctor sat in the chair on the opposite side. He reached behind him, towards the holster where his gun rested snugly against his back. Instead of the gun however, he retrieved a small plastic container he’d tucked next to his gun. Gently, he set it on the table and opened it to show Stronge the contents.

It was a syringe, a clear liquid filled the wide cylinder.

Stronge swallowed nervously.

“This is 100 mEq of Potassium Chloride,” said John, placing his hands casually on the desk on either side of the plastic container. “Once in the body, the two chemical ingredients will break apart into potassium and chlorine. Both of these are naturally found in the body, necessary to live. The chlorine will then attach itself to sodium found in the body to create sodium chloride, more commonly known as table salt. The potassium, meanwhile, will be increasing your heart rate. After a short time, between five and fifteen minutes usually, you will begin ventricular fibrillation, a form of cardiac arrest.

“The medical examiners will find slightly raised levels of sodium chloride in your blood, but that isn’t all that uncommon among victims of heart attacks. I’ve chosen a relatively small needle, so unless they’re really looking for it, which they probably won’t be, it will likely go unnoticed.

“So you see, Mr. Stronge, I can in fact shoot you without beginning a man hunt.”

The politician had gone pale, an involuntary shiver running through his body, “They’ll be signs of a struggle. I’m not just going to sit here and let you give me a lethal injection.”

John chuckled, “I’m a patient man Mr. Stronge, it doesn’t have to be today. I can wait for a more convenient time.”

“I’ll send people after you,” threatened Stronge, “you will never rest.”

“People like Sebastian Moran and Elizabeth Michaels?” said John calmly, “Honestly, they’re a welcome challenge. Don’t get me wrong, I love working with Sherlock, the thrill of the chase, but it isn’t the same, is it? To hunt and be hunted. Richard Connell had a point you know, when he wrote “The Most Dangerous Game”.”

“You’re insane.”

“You aren’t the first person to say that,” said John, “though my therapist seems to think it’s just a bit of PTSD and some trust issues.”

Stronge stared at him, mind racing.

“So, what’ll it be?” said John, doctor’s smile returning, “Shall we get this over with now? Or should I prepare for the hunt?”

 

#

 

John entered the flat at 9:23pm with a bag of carry out. Sherlock read the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the tired rings under his eyes, and the weary droop of his jaw as John kicked off his shoes. Sherlock eyed the disturbing black t-shirt. 

“We’re burning them all tomorrow,” said Sherlock, taking the carry out from him, “those freakish shirts of yours.”

John smiled and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, bouncing on the balls of his feet to steal a kiss, “If you insist.”


	12. Partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a lovely rainy day here, perfect for writing. 
> 
> We did it!! The trilogy is complete! I have had so much fun writing these stories and the continuous support from everyone (especially you, Sebamher ) has been my primary motivation for continuing. So thank you, thank you, thank you!!!
> 
> As always, I'll be doing some editing and such, looking for continuity and grammar issues. There were a couple of scenes that just never got to take place for various reasons, so I plan to do them as single chapter works, not attached to the series but still founded with these characters.

John woke entangled in the covers of Sherlock’s bed. The detective himself was missing, but John could hear muffled voices coming from the sitting room. TV? Mycroft maybe, John wasn’t sure. He sat up and freed his feet from the sheets. He reached for his mobile to check the time, ten in the morning. He’d eaten, showered, and let Sherlock tuck him into bed in nothing but his pants by half past ten the night before. _Nearly twelve hours of sleep._ He’d been too wound up, too much adrenaline, to rest the last few nights, and if he was being honest, he just didn’t sleep as well without Sherlock nearby.

He found his robe and wrapped it around himself before wandering out of the bedroom in search of tea and breakfast. As he stepped into the hall, John heard Mycroft’s familiar trill.

“He told me he’d sort it out,” said Mycroft, “the less I know the better, as it were.”

“It’s mildly terrifying.”

John smiled and stepped into the kitchen, “Something happen?”

Mycroft and Sherlock both looked away from the television, where a news anchor was announcing the sudden death of Michael Stronge, who’d been found that morning by his secretary. The apparent cause of death is suspected to be a heart attack, not surprising with the daily stress of a politician during a campaign such as his. They both observed the way John padded around the kitchen, making his tea and scrounging for breakfast. 

“It would seem,” said Mycroft, “That Mr. Stronge fell into cardiac arrest last night.”

“Did he?” said John, fiddling with the kettle, “That’s going to hurt the Labour Party this election.”

Mycroft returned his gaze to Sherlock, he lifted an eyebrow and Sherlock gave a slight nod in return. John laughed in the kitchen, causing them both to scowl. 

John completed making his cup of tea while the brothers exchanged silent words. He walked into the sitting area, sipping at his drink and stood for a moment, watching the replayed footage of Stronge’s body being wheeled out of the building in a black bag on a gurney. He did his best to ignore the way both brothers were trying to observe him, pick him apart.

John glanced at Sherlock who was in his pajama bottoms, a white undershirt, and his blue dressing gown. He was obviously irritated by Mycroft’s extended presence, ready for things to be back to normal.

“Hey Mycroft,” said John, “do you ever wonder, if fish could talk, if they would spend a great deal of their time narrating what humans are doing outside of their tank?”

Mycroft stood hastily, “I’ll just be off then.”

“Or do you think they’d mostly just swim about being surprised all the time because they have such short memory spans?”

“Do stay out of trouble,” said Mycroft, moving towards the door.

“What if fish actually hate castles?”

Mycroft made a frustrated growling noise and departed from the flat, shutting the door more aggressively than was really needed.

“I’m going to need to know everything you did to evoke that reaction,” said Sherlock, smiling at John.

The doctor laughed, “He’s more patient than I ever gave him credit for.”

Sherlock stared up at him from where he was seated in his armchair. Though the hint of a smirk remained on his face, his eyes seemed somewhat distant and nervous.

“What’s wrong?” asked John, stepping closer to Sherlock.

“I greatly disliked having you gone,” said Sherlock, “and not simply for the fact you were in danger, or because you drugged me.”

John grinned and leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head, “I missed you too.”

Sherlock tilted his head to look John in the eye, “You are never allowed to do that again.”

“What? Kiss your head?”

Sherlock scowled, “Run off without me, or take any more ‘jobs’ for that matter.”

“I’ve never taken a job while we were together,” said John, finding a place to set down his tea, “and I mostly did them because people were in danger… and I needed money.”

The detective continued to glare.

John sat on the arm of the chair and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, planting yet another kiss in his mess of hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt an ounce of tension fall from Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Shall I gather up those _disturbing_ t-shirts,” asked John, “You can burn them in the fireplace, or use them for cleaning rags, or experiments.”

“Let’s burn them,” said Sherlock firmly. With a chuckle, John went upstairs to gather the few still in the flat, and then fetched the one from the night before as well as the one Sherlock had cut up, and delivered them to Sherlock, who was already working on building a small flame.

They sat cross-legged next to each other on the floor in front of the flame, too warm for late March, and watched the cotton slowly burn away. Sherlock seemed to find some kind of childlike glee in throwing them in one at a time to burn.

As the last shirt began to wither, John nudged Sherlock with his elbow, “Better?”

The detective reached out, placing a tender hand along John’s jaw and drawing him closer for a kiss, “Much.”

John returned the kiss, his weight supported on his right hand as he leaned in towards Sherlock, allowing his lips to press against Sherlock’s own. He licked lightly across Sherlock’s lower lip, coaxing his partner’s tongue forward and then sliding his own into Sherlock’s parted mouth. His left hand reached out to Sherlock’s neck and then slid between the cotton shirt and silk robe; his hand ran down Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing the robe away.

Their bodies naturally turned towards each other, legs shifting out of their cross-legged position to more comfortable positions as their hands reached out to touch. Sherlock pulled open John’s robe, his hands sliding it from John’s shoulders. He leaned forward into John, his hand worked into the doctor’s short hair, his kiss became more urgent as he pushed into John until the doctor was on his back with Sherlock resting on his elbows, pressed against him from chest to hip.

Sherlock rocked his hips forward, pressing his growing erection into the bulge of John’s pants, and hummed in satisfaction at John’s gasp and his tightened grip on Sherlock’s back. The detective trailed kisses along John’s jaw to his ear where he licked along the helix before speaking in his intoxicating, low baritone voice.

“I want to feel you John Watson, every inch of you, deep inside,” he suckled at John’s earlobe as the man below groaned and bucked forward, “Please, John, have me?”

“Always,” John answered, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s torso, urging the t-shirt off of him. Sherlock sat up, the bulges of their pants rubbing against each other at the movement and evoking small gasping moans from them both. He pulled the shirt off and smiled at the sight of the kiss-mark over John’s heart. Sherlock leaned forward, kissing the spot again, and relaxing into the feel of John’s hand reaching into his hair before running down along his spine. John hooked his thumb into the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and pants and began working on sliding them off.

Sherlock straightened up again, and then stood, pulling John’s pants off as he did so. “Stay right there,” he commanded, before walking back to the bedroom. John lay panting on the floor, fighting the urge to touch himself while he waited for Sherlock to return. 

At first, John thought he’d just gone to fetch the lube, but when it took longer to return than expected he began to wonder if he needed to go check on him. Sherlock returned, naked, hard, and with lube in hand. John propped himself up on his elbows, “I was beginning to worry,” he said with a smile. Sherlock returned to his place atop John, gasping at the feel of their erections rubbing against each other without the barrier of clothing. He kissed John sweetly, laying him back down, “No need to worry.”

Sherlock leaned over him, kissing him deeply while their erections pressed into each other’s stomachs. John heard the click of the lube bottle opening, felt Sherlock pull his knees up so that they weren’t quite so close together, and then felt Sherlock’s lubed hand wrap around him, pumping him so that any hardness he’d lost while waiting quickly jumped back to attention.

It dawned on John why Sherlock had taken so long to return as the detective inched forward, lined himself up with John, and sank down onto him. The doctor’s hands were on Sherlock’s hips instantly, grasping at him as he loudly exhaled a moan. It was incredibly tight and warm, and, “God, Sherlock, you’re amazing.”

The detective moaned in response, tightening around John’s cock. John thrust upward, deeper into Sherlock, and could barely keep himself from coming when Sherlock threw back his head and moaned, “Yes, John, again.”

John pulled back slightly so he could repeat the movement. One hand wandered down to Sherlock’s cock, grasping it with practiced precision, and began pumping it as he thrust deeper into Sherlock. The detective exhaled, bit down on his lip and moaned again, “John, John, yes, _John_.”

The doctor watched Sherlock with amazement. Sex with Sherlock was always amazing, but it was fantastic to be buried in him, to see the flush of his skin, the glisten of sweat, the wanton look of his eyes, and the needy bite of his lips. It made it all the more marvelous that they were in the sitting room in the middle of the day and Sherlock kept repeating his name, throwing his head back with a desperate moan, uncaring of how loud he might be.

Sherlock panted, hands grasping at any place he could find on John’s body. He looked down at his lover, observing his wide blown eyes and obvious adoration, the kiss mark over his heart, and then John was saying his name and with a shudder and a heady moan, Sherlock was coming in John’s hand, the sticky wet semen pooling on John’s stomach. There was another deep thrust, a tightening of John’s grip on his hip, a slow pump on his still sensitive erection, and John came, a whimper of Sherlock’s name on his lips.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close, yet sliding out at the same time. Delicately, he moved Sherlock so that they were embracing each other on the floor. They panted, wrapped around each other, still sensitive, the blood still rushing through their bodies, causing their hearts to pound. Sherlock eventually lay flat on his back, sprawled out as best he could in the cramped space, one arm slung around John who’d curled onto his side with his head nested into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Neither of them could really say how long they laid there, enjoying the feel of the others presence, but as their breathing slowed and they fell into that tranquil space that existed between them Sherlock lifted his head to kiss the top of John’s head, “I love you.”

He could feel the smile on John’s face, and the subtle way John pulled himself closer to Sherlock. “I’ve never doubted it,” he said, “but it is nice to hear.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I love you too,” said John, kissing the bit of skin closest to his lips.

“We should get married,” Sherlock said, though he hadn’t really planned to. It just sort of slipped out, though now that it had he did find the idea appealing.

“And go to Canada.”

“Canada?”

“For our honeymoon,” said John, “We should get married and go to Canada for our honeymoon.”

Sherlock hummed, “There are no interesting murders in Canada.”

“Exactly,” said John, still smiling, “we can lock ourselves in a cabin and shag the whole time.”

Sherlock laughed, “Alright. We’ll get married, and go to Canada.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last enormous thank you for reading!! A writer without a reader is like a doctor without a patient or a teacher without a student. 
> 
> You define me! ;)


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